


The Color of Fear

by Seaward



Category: Original Work
Genre: College, Cultural Differences, Drug Use, F/M, Genetics, Identity Issues, Minor Character Death, News Media, Synesthesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-03-01 21:36:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 94,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13303746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seaward/pseuds/Seaward
Summary: For Rustle, going to college in 2072 is more complicated than just choosing a major and finding new friends. When terrorists and his own government issue threats and release DNA-altering viruses, Rustle becomes both a rallying point for protests and romantically entangled in a what might be a conspiracy...





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story I originally wrote in 2006 under the pseudonym Clara Ward. It has twenty-two chapters, labeled in the manuscript, but to simplify posting on AO3, I broke it into "Part One" and "Part Two" here. 
> 
> Many thanks to Betsy, Linda, Cera, Earl, Cat, and Eric who read various drafts. Thanks also to NaNoWriMo, NaNoEdMo, and the Writers' Workshop at BayCon. Any remaining mistakes are mine.

 

**Chapter 1**

 

_San Francisco Chronicle         Tuesday, Sept. 6, 2072_

_Terror Squad Investigates Bus Attack_

_By Jordan Walsh, Chronicle Staff Writer_

_A Terror Squad Unit is investigating a possible terrorist attack against a Golden Tortoise bus. Shortly after 9:00 this morning, the speaker system on the bus broadcast the slogans: “Gene Freaks Go Home” and “Stop the Freak Power Grab.” The driver disabled the Automated Vehicle Safety (AVS) system, allegedly to stop the announcements and block other terrorist interference via the GPS-based network. All passengers and the driver safely left the bus. A Terror Squad Unit is currently investigating the scene. This was the first Golden Tortoise bus with service to Hershenstein University, a school in Vacaville, California. Today, Hershenstein became the first accredited university to give up public funding in order to admit non-genotypical students despite the Family Planning Act of 2041._

 

 

The terror squad spread like a fire. Rustle ducked by the side of the road as it engulfed his bus from bottom to top, lingering by the wheels and engine but spreading rapidly across the walls and windows. Two dogs sniffed, noses to the ground, as handlers in white paper coveralls and face masks followed behind, eyes scanning constantly. A tall man, who wore a white metal helmet in addition to his white paper coveralls and face mask, waved an arm-length pole over every surface, then extended the pole to reach above the bus. He glanced occasionally at the unmarked white van in which he and the dog handlers had arrived. Rustle assumed data collected with the pole was transmitted to something inside the van. Two cop cars and a fire engine, parked farther along the freeway, disgorged more members of the terror squad as traffic squeezed by on the left.

Hot pink spikes of paranoia jagged across Rustle’s vision, and he tried to ignore them as one pair of police officers questioned the bus driver while another pair approached the line of passengers standing on the shoulder of the freeway. Rustle was first in line.

“Name?” asked an officer with a star pinned to his chest like something out of an old movie.

“Rustle Andoin.”

“ID?”

He held out his phone, open to his ID, not trusting himself to speak like a genotypical. Rustle had limited knowledge of how typs spoke, mostly gleaned from media and fieldtrips.

The second officer scanned and downloaded his ID. Then they moved to the next person in line.

“Name?”

The young man stared at his feet and began to bounce, just a little, on his toes. He looked about Rustle’s age, eighteen, maybe a year or two older. His hair was shaved short, and shiny black virtual keyboard gloves covered his hands to the elbows. Rustle had seen him get on the bus at an Asperger intunity. Like his own synesthetic intunity, the non-genotypicals there didn’t exactly put up a sign, but Rustle found out easily enough with a GPS backtrack and public records search on his phone.

Rustle had never met anyone from an Asperger intunity, but he knew the guy bouncing on his toes belonged to another group excluded from ADA and National Health. This guy might act semi-autistic or semi-compulsive, from what Rustle had learned in biology class. The fact that an Asperger intunity existed meant someone back in the 2040s had thought it worth defying the political thinking of the times, when politicians said everyone should have universal medical care and education but excluded certain conditions that could be screened with prenatal tests. Rustle had learned that in history, but it hadn’t caused problems right in front of him before. He wondered if he should try to clue the police in and how a typical person might say such things, but the cop went on to his second question before Rustle could make himself speak.

“ID?”

The guy stopped bouncing and held out one gloved finger, surprisingly steady. The second cop scanned it and said, “Benjamin Lindel” and tilted his scanner pad so the first cop could read the screen. The lead cop’s eyebrows wrinkled and Rustle saw him surrounded by a brown-violet cloud. Trying to translate his synesthetic colors, Rustle guessed the cop felt confusion and disgust as he read some law enforcement protocol about Asperger. Then the cops stepped away to deal with the next people in line, a group of dwarfs who’d been on the bus before Rustle boarded.

As Benjamin began typing frantically on his virtual keyboard, Rustle smelled old coffee but felt a fuzzy white familiarity. The guy couldn’t even talk to the police. Rustle had been slow to say more than his name for fear of saying something non-typical, but he’d done better than that. Maybe he’d have passed as typical if the police scanner didn’t rat him out as coming from a synesthetic intunity. Standing beside a bus hacked to terrorize and insult freaks like him didn’t help either.

The bus sat dead. WiFi, GPS, all communications cut; engine off. Photo-voltaics on top glinted golden in the sun. Perhaps that gave the Golden Tortoise its name. For a moment Rustle was struck by the very real beauty of the bus.

The driver explained slowly to police, “Someone hacked into our public address system. If they could get to that, they could alter navigation or outside overrides, so I shut it all down to be safe.”

The brown around the sniffing dogs could just be dust, stirred up from the road, or it might be that Rustle felt sorry for them and wondered why they didn’t rate white paper coveralls and face masks like their handlers. Were those to protect from biological or chemical terrorism? Could he and the other passengers have been exposed to something more than harsh language?

Rustle used the expert system on his phone to search for “bus terrorism” and found an article posted moments before in the _Chronicle_ , about his bus!

It didn’t tell him anything new, but he wondered how the news spread so fast. Was it police channels, satellite coverage, an informant next to him typing frantically at a virtual keyboard?

Rustle wondered if Benjamin would be at school with him.

A dubious honor. Rustle’s intunity had signed off on his application to Hershenstein, perhaps suspecting Rustle would leave anyway. His own parents had each carried only one of the three banned synesthetic sequences. They named themselves synesthetic, and the intunity said synesthesia was a culmination of many factors, genetic and environmental. Did Rustle’s genes cause his brain to process emotions directly into colors? Did he really see his emotions and smell his impressions of others, or was he just trained to think in metaphor? No telling what a gene scan would show, and his intunity claimed it didn’t matter. Outside, being non-genotypical meant the loss of free medical care and schooling, but in the intunity, people took care of their own.

Now here he was, standing beside a dead bus. Was he an ambassador or just expendable? He’d left home armored in a teal sense of purpose, ready to get away from everyone at home, and the university’s endowment offered him that, if only he could get there after this bus fiasco.

His mom had sent a message: “Float where it’s warm.” After eighteen years in their synesthetic intunity, living in the same house, Rustle could only guess what she meant, but he was certain she hadn’t seen news about the bus attack yet. She’d add it to the list of why leaving was a bad decision. His dad hadn’t even come to the transit stop to see him off. Adults in their intunity didn’t trust the outside world and didn’t have much use for it either. They scoffed at the stupidity of outdated genetics legislation but said they were better off away from the “genotypical” majority. No one understood why Rustle would go away to college. No one there understood anything at all.

Snapping a picture off the side of the highway, Rustle caught a field of green pumpkins tinged with orange. He clicked to share it through his web room back home, but a message came back: “access denied.” Was this his dad’s way of kicking him out of the house or had the intunity axed his account?

Thoughts racing and jumbling, Rustle tried to hold onto the positive tinge of orange, from his picture and from making his way out to college. He was free now, whatever was happening with his web room didn’t matter. Neck muscles relaxed where he hadn’t noticed they were tight, but the fear of what outsiders would think of him traced a bitter red rind to his thoughts of freedom.

He stared at his rejected picture of green pumpkins tinged with orange.

“Hit the deck!”

Rustle fell to the ground, saw the men in white on the ground, even the dogs were down.

Rustle’s first thought was, _“Maybe I’ll fit in after all. I knew what that meant.”_ His second was, _“I don’t know who yelled it or why.”_

A slow motion second later he realized the guy with the virtual keyboard was still standing, looking up. Fluttery strings like confetti or a ticker tape parade were falling along the highway. The traffic he’d taken for granted before was suddenly stopped. Rustle heard a slight hum, and saw a tiny airplane, like a toy, pass overhead. Then three more whooshed up behind it scattering a cloud of white dust that turned the darkest red of sunset in his mind’s eye as it fell.

“Don’t touch anything!” It was the same voice as before, one of the cops. “Can you trace who’s controlling those drones?” The drones were too far away to hear by the end of the question. A silence that shouldn’t be heard outside followed.

The tall man in white, the one with the helmet, rose to a crouch and spoke intensely to someone on the phone. No one moved. Rustle strained to make out his words, but they were swallowed in red haze despite the silence. Rustle wanted to run, to scream, to brush away the dust settling on his arms, but he didn’t move and neither did anyone else.

Then the white-clad man on the phone called out, “They’re jamming, but we’re trying to track. Everyone stay still as we analyze the white powder.”

Rustle tried to obey, but his arms were starting to tremble. He told himself the dust that covered him was white and that red was the synesthetic color of his fear. He tried to control the fear by banishing the color, but he couldn’t. He saw the picture of orange-tinged pumpkins and tried to calm himself by focusing on memories of orange.

Sometimes he still dreamed of being orange. Once, when he was little, he’d achieved orange with all his senses—easy, perfect, complete. It had been morning hot, fallen leaves flitted across the ground, soft and skittery: the day of his sixth birthday, just before the guests came. Balloons bounced above the house, clouds wafted by in a cozy white haze, and mom hummed cinnamon sweet bubbles of pirate gold. And all of it pervaded by orange: his body, the trees, every breath of air. Maybe, at least at that age, he’d been fully synesthetic. Ever since, he’d been trying to get back that orange.

Nothing audible was said by anyone for several very long minutes. Rustle had time to feel uncomfortable with his stomach on the gravely edge of the road and to wonder if he’d damaged his phone. There seemed to be a scratch across the green and orange pumpkins. He knew he was calmer as he looked around, moving only his eyes, and saw the dropped powder and scraps of paper as white with no tinge of red.

Rustle wondered if the powder might kill him, whatever it really was. Would the day he left home also be the day he died? He thought he should be afraid of dying but realized he wasn’t, in the same way he hadn’t been afraid to leave for college. It was too big an unknown for any color.

“No signals now,” the man in the helmet said. “We’re still analyzing the attack but affected personnel may proceed to stage two.”

“Everyone can get up, but stay close.” said the cop who’d spoken before. He’d been part of the pair questioning the driver, but now he wore a mask over nose and mouth that he hadn’t worn before.

Rustle stood but stifled the urge to dust himself off. A man and woman from the ambulance came through distributing face masks. They were cheap paper models, but Rustle found himself holding his breath until he was handed one. A driver who’d stopped on the freeway rushed over to ask for a facemask, and Rustle thought he would have been smarter to stay inside his car.

Rustle saw a dog handler swab his dog’s nose and insert the swab into a device at his belt. Then he swabbed his own white paper coveralls and put that sample into a similar receptacle. The white van remained motionless, but the man with the phone kept glancing at it as he conversed too quietly for Rustle to overhear.

Some of the passengers from the bus started talking in whispers. Benjamin, who had stood typing through the attack, now squatted and used a stick to poke at powder on the edge of the pavement. When he had a small mound scraped together he spit on it and mixed with his stick. It didn’t do anything unusual, like change color or explode, but Rustle moved farther away just in case. A terror squad member was using pinchers to collect the pieces of paper that had dropped from the first drone. He lined them up on the ground near where the bus driver stood. Rustle moved closer to try and see, or at least to overhear some of what was said.

The man with the pinchers read, “‘Stop the freak power grab.’ Probably all just propaganda…”

“Damn drones.” The bus driver lifted a hand as if to rub his eyes then stopped the gesture short.

“Dogs would have signaled…really bad…anything else…”

“Safer for me to drive without the AVS if this all blows over.”

“…all you can think about…”

“…licensed to drive without AVS.”

“…police escort…”

“…undue publicity.”

Rustle walked a couple yards further and kicked a shred of paper that hadn’t been collected yet. It said, “Gene freaks go home.” Rustle thought anyone going through this much bother to create terror could have come up with a better slogan.

 

It was more than an hour later when the terror squad officially declared the powder harmless, a mixture of corn starch and some other chemical that Rustle didn’t recognize but no one seemed too concerned about. A second terror unit had arrived by then to help clean up, or at least to vacuum off the civilians. Rustle noticed the people with the vacuum devices mounted on their back still wore heavy duty face masks, so Rustle kept his flimsy paper version for a while longer.

 

Two more hours passed before traffic ran smoothly and most of the powder and hate confetti had been cleaned up or blown away. As they all tromped back onto the bus, the driver stood outside the door and Rustle asked him, “Are we safe?”

“Safer than before you knew to think about it.”

Rustle continued up the front steps into the bus and didn’t mind the purple synesthetic tinge his mind added to the AVS system, now dark in a panel of lights. As far as he could tell, his purple was what most people called uncertainty or curiosity. If that was all the terrorists had caused in him, he figured he’d won.

He completed the ride to college on the purple-tinged bus. Only the Asperger guy with his virtual gloves looked young enough to be going to Hershenstein with him. As they pulled off the freeway, Rustle checked his phone GPS. This was it, Nutty U, or Hershenstein University if you didn’t know better. It began with the largest parking lot Rustle had ever seen.

As they pulled into the lot, Rustle’s phone caught a general announcement from “student001.” Expecting a powder-white welcome, Rustle instead found “GENE Freaks Go Home” beaming at him in red letters from his phone. He cleared the screen and figured he should upgrade his security sometime, but he refused to be afraid.

The Golden Tortoise picked its way through narrow aisles between emptying cars, a solar monstrosity amidst various smaller hybrids and alternatives. Two police officers leaned against a patrol car to one side. Rustle’s pulse sped for a moment, but these two just lounged beside their squad car in the school parking lot. Rustle looked away.

The bus pulled right up front, stopping at a plaza between a rumbling concrete dinosaur of an assembly hall and two modern twin spires with a glass walkway connecting them like the letter “H.”

In his childhood’s sensory-affective alphabet “H” was sandpapery, smoke-scented, lightning bright, and drumbeat steady. It tasted of beef jerky, a little tough but reassuring. For a moment he stood tall before his new school, until a woman in a recycled paper tailcoat rushed toward him trailing a bot cart.

Her hand reached out a bit unsteadily, but he shook it anyway as she said, “Welcome to Hershenstein University. I’m Gladys Kye, your registrar, and you’re just in time for the new student welcome. I’ll check you in and send the bot with your things; you can log in afterward for your catalog and course syllabi. Your name is?”

She was so lime green, startling. Her green pulsed out to him with every rushed word. He noticed an older woman, in another paper tailcoat marked with the school crest, approaching the Asperger guy much more slowly. That woman wore a long, virtual reality glove from fingertips to shoulder on one arm, and Rustle wondered if her virtual glove was medically necessary, due to a stroke perhaps, or a special tool for interacting with an Asperger student like Benjamin. He’d heard some Asian countries provided such devices to their citizens, but in the US he wasn’t sure even typs, or genotypicals as they probably preferred to be called, were automatically entitled to such expensive treatment.

The woman who’d greeted Rustle leaned in a little closer, and he managed to say, “Rustle Andoin.” He was about to spell it when the registration tablet beeped and the bot rolled forward saying, “Voice identified, Rustle Andoin. May I collect your baggage from vehicle Golden Tortoise and transport to Room 24 in Chomsky Hall?”

The bot’s voice was fluorescent orange, sweet as syrup, not even trying to fake being human. Its physical presence gave him no aura, but a jumpiness kicked in his ribs as he said, “Go ahead,” to see if it was smart enough for colloquialisms.

It was. The shiny metal cart rolled around him to the bus and called out to Rustle’s luggage with his voiceprint and authorization. The bus driver had to lift the bags out from a deep storage space under the passenger compartment. Then he loaded the bot, positioning each of the three bags tightly against a folded-up rear panel, setting the bot up to unload itself later. It was gone before Rustle had his room clearance and student key.

Meanwhile, the lime green registration woman was patting him on the shoulder saying, “Just through the ‘H’ and down into the quad.” Rustle found himself moving forward without knowing what he was supposed to attend.

As he approached, the glass corridor that stretched to form the midline on the “H” called to him with an air of faint purple mystery. He spotted stairways leading up on either side that coaxed him with the fuzziness of white blankets, pulling him through an unlocked door. The stairs were metal and sounded loud against his feet, but the windows all dazzled and glowed. For a moment, he appreciated his synesthetic perceptions, whether they were trained or rooted in his genes.

The glass walkway was only two floors up. Rustle leaned against the railing near one end and gazed out over the quad. It wasn’t as big as he’d expected, bounded on all four sides by six- to eight-story buildings, comfortingly busy with only a couple hundred students right now. They looked so ordinary. So many pleasantly proportioned bodies in jeans, utility shorts, or rubberized kilts. He saw no dwarfs, no deaf people signing. But Benjamin’s finger movements on his virtual reality keyboard caught Rustle’s eye. Benjamin was seated at the top of several long steps beside a planter of multicolored kale, insistently elsewhere through his virtual efforts.

The long steps below the planters formed four concentric squares, making the quad a sort of concrete sunken garden. The other students stood in small groups talking, often with one or two older people, presumably faculty or staff.

Inane server bots wheeled around, trapped at the bottom of those four raised squares. Each of these bots was like a little round table with a white tablecloth. Trays with safety rims held hors d’oeuvres on top, undoubtedly replaced as needed through a sliding panel from inside. These bots didn’t impress Rustle. He’d seen them at home in his own backward intunity, playing recorded human voices offering what they carried, following simple algorithms for circulating among guests.

Rustle had no desire to join the party. The glassed-in stairways called to him with their cloudy softness. Perhaps he could get to the roof. Would they give students access? He rushed up past glaring bright patches at each turn, strobing past images of the sweating students below.

An open door let him burst like a splash of light onto the hot roof, easing like steam as he headed to the half-wall at the edge overlooking the quad. He was there and hearing his heartbeat before he saw the woman in overalls perched atop an exhaust vent.

She glanced at him, then back down at the quad, and he wondered if ordinary people spoke to each other in such situations. He’d never been alone with a typ before. He’d never left the intunity by himself.

All his jouncing energy and steam were suddenly gone, sucked into the dark pseudo-denim of the woman’s overalls. Her shirt underneath was a tight dark green that smelled sweet in his mind although he knew it was something plain and stretchy. Still, it invited him to look even as the overalls obscured the view. Higher up, her black hair was cut shoulder short, curling haphazardly around her ears but swelling like a wave above her high forehead. The features making up her face cut a little severe, except her mouth, which tucked in small like the freckles on her cheeks that he could barely see.

She glanced at him again, and he wondered if his velvet leggings and many-pocketed linen shirt looked common enough to pass. If he could talk like an ordinary person, would anyone know the difference? What was he supposed to say? Should he speak first since he’d just barged onto her rooftop? Why’d she have to be there anyway?

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” he said, thinking that must sound ordinary at least. She didn’t stare at him, keeping her eyes on the crowd below.

“Have you been down there? Do you know what it’s all about?”

“Uh, I’m not sure. I bet we can look it up on the school net.” He fumbled out his phone and started sorting through school information. With his web room back home cut off, he’d have to start a whole new collection of links.

After about thirty seconds the woman jumped off the vent and moved to the walled-in roof edge, keeping the same distance between herself and him. The curve of her hip while leaning suggested more of her shape beneath the overalls. “I wasn’t asking you to look it up, just asking what you knew. It’s called conversation.”

“Oh, yeah.” He put his phone away stiffly, not having found anything useful yet. He straightened up and looked down at the people piping like ants below, light-colored, non-threatening ants. He couldn’t deduce anything interesting to comment on and felt rushed as a light stroke of lavender. “I think it’s some kind of new student reception. You know any more?”

“It’s to welcome the endowment students, the new non-typical quota.”

“Oh.” Had he just given himself away? He leaned forward on both arms. “What kind of non-typical? Most of them look pretty normal.”

“Non-genotypical: alternate learning styles, mood imbalances, polydactylism, epileptic spiritualists, and the plain unplanned who couldn’t qualify for public ed and medical. You must know about the grant to replace public funding?”

“Of course.” He didn’t want to seem stupid. “But they look so ordinary.” A faint aquamarine clouded his view of the gathering with growing discomfort. He watched for differences and found none.

“Look how sincerely those in pairs talk.” The woman pointed to several twosomes. “The larger groups stay together longer than I’d expect. The older prof, there, with his jacket all buttoned, is kicking nervously with his toe as he fakes a smile at the students around him.”

Rustle tensed into a shade of brown. Was she some sort of spy or police informant? Or just an older student disturbed by the invasion? Her face didn’t look old, but there was something tired in the way she stood, resigned and almost vulture patient. He didn’t like her, but he wanted her to like him anyway.

“What are you studying?” he asked.

“Probably math, just to avoid the medical school.”

She must be new too. “What’s wrong with the med school?”

“Nothing. It’s their best draw.” She glanced at him with half a smile like he should know that.

Indigo shame swallowed him as his muscles tensed, and he tried not to see the synesthetic burst of bright color. “So?”

She leaned over the rail, not answering. He didn’t move.

“People back home expect me to do virology.”

“Why?”

“They think I like viruses better than humans.”

“How come?”

“’Cause I do sometimes. Viruses keep you guessing. They exploit any change that works, speeding their way around slower species’ defenses, never second-guessing themselves or each other.”

This woman sounded like a twisted version of some of his textbooks. He’d have to study to sound typical like that. For now he’d just avoid any sensory references and hope his wording was similar enough.

“So why math?”

“Numbers are good too, versatile, safer to work with. And there aren’t many ethics boards if you don’t do applied.”

“I thought I might try math.”

“Really, why?” She wrinkled her forehead and looked at him longer than she had before.

“Dunno. I’m good with numbers. It might be fun.”

She nodded like he was some kind of idiot. “Sure.”

“You have a better idea?” He was starting to see her as lime green, like the registrar. It clashed in spiky burrs with her shirt.

She walked closer to him, scanning intently from his face to his feet, seeming to divine his future from the way he stood. He wondered if his body language was typical enough.

“You should try architecture.”

“You know this by looking at me?”

“Maybe.” She shrugged and leaned over the edge, elbows braced on the far side of the wall and chin cupped in her hands. “I know you’re meant to be down there as surely as I am, but you’re up here talking to me, hoping I won’t guess. You’re disguising something about your normal speech. Maybe you’re deleting descriptions. You said you’re good with numbers, and I’ll bet you use memory tricks based on visualization. Do you see your numbers along paths marked by sensory clues? Did you grow up in a synesthetic intunity and write math on your application because it was as far from poetry as you could get?”

He wanted to accuse her of snooping his files, but he hadn’t written math on his application, only undecided, and something in the green that shifted to violet around her insisted she was baiting him to see if he’d confess. But could anyone guess that well? Awe and paranoia pulled at him like teal and pink bungee cords, and he could not rid himself of the colors. “You say you’re supposed to be down there?”

She laughed, and he couldn’t stand how sincere it seemed.

“Yes. I’m Marie Durran, divergent thinkers’ intunity. Here to prove my type’s fit for inclusion or maybe to avoid certain people. There was a time they might have labeled me depressed, but the last three editions of the Diagnostic and Statistics Manual would vouchsafe no such diagnosis.”

“What?” She looked younger now, slouching over her folded arms on the railing, overall straps arching out slack. The chaos of colors she’d provoked in him began to fade.

“Suppose some people’s connections to others are unbreakable rope, always there to form either noose or safety line. But what happens with a pair of close friends, if one person feels connections that way and the other doesn’t? Is stuff like that primarily genetic? Epigenetic? Neurochemical? Environmental? Would we change it if we could? It’s obvious to want to change yourself, but what if changing others might strengthen a community?”

“Is this something to do with divergent thinking?”

“Only tangentially.” She straightened up, curves momentarily defined in the shift of stance and clothing. “Let’s try again. There’s a question poets and ethicists ask: If certain achievements are fueled by frustration, should we let people suffer to make the most of their abilities? Or should we change people to decrease their frustration?”

Rustle had no idea what Marie was talking about. Her conversation was hard for him to follow, and she’d admitted she wasn’t genotypical. Would he have to learn different ways to talk to different types here, or was there a basic, accepted way to speak?

“Well, if poets ask that, I’m surely no poet,” he said.

“A poet would probably ask it better.” For a moment she seemed caterpillar fuzzy, but Rustle focused on the remaining tinge of lime green to keep him cautious.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“It’s the stranger on a plane phenomenon. You are synesthetic though?”

Given how much she’d told him, and that she wasn’t typ after all, he decided to be honest. “I was raised that way, but we don’t have ourselves tested.”

She let out air in a huff, like a sigh of derision delivered through her nose. “Tests based on turn-of-the-century tech when they barely understood epigenetics or retrotransposons, let alone all the rest. Still, no poetry?”

“The imagery is there, but you’d be surprised how hard it is to communicate.”

“Not really.”

“It’s just—”

“Not surprised I mean. My mind’s different too, remember? Even if I don’t see arpeggios and hear translucency.”

The way she said “hear translucency” made him feel green and purple and black all at once, which was a little confusing and a little too close to lust for someone he didn't trust or like and thought might be crazy.

“I should go.” He began to edge away.

“Really?” She tossed her hair over one shoulder and turned to climb back onto the air-conditioning vent.

Rustle looked over the wall one last time. Past the building on the far side of the quad, he could see a huge oval garden with a border of trees and a rough oval of more buildings beyond that. The students below still looked pretty ordinary, though he had no desire to investigate further. Marie, on her vent, now looked far from ordinary, though her posture and gaze were identical to when he’d arrived. Maybe she looked sadder. A breeze came up that stirred her hair. Some fronds of lime green caught, tangled in the darker strands, but most of the colors had faded away. He left the roof.

 

##  **Chapter 2**

##  _Far from the Tree                    Wednesday, Sept. 7, 2072_

_Hershey Bars None – But Who Bought Them?_

_By Tim Id Not, Tree Correspondent_

_“We will not be shortening the school year,” said Gladys Kye, school registrar, when a student reporter humbly suggested we could save our big “anonymous donor” lots of money this way. Seriously though, it’s great to offer gene-freaks a chance at equal education, but who’s paying the bill?_

_Some big spender is covering almost the entire student body’s tuition this year. (The government doesn’t pay, if gene-freaks come to play.) Who’s got that kind of money? Do a quick cross-search on the thousand richest people in California with the surnames of everyone living in intunities and guess who pops out? The tissue-rejection guy, Mr. Teddy Popinopolis, has a large branch of his family in an Asperger intunity (what Californians call communities formed by people who choose to have non-genotypical children). It will undoubtedly be well represented at Nutty U this year._

_For those of you not up on the Who’s Who of wealthy scientists, twenty years ago they could barely transplant a kidney or graft an earlobe without a hospital stay and immune suppressant drugs. Teddy, while in grad school (you loafers!), made the process safe as tattooing. He got you all your furry feet and extra earlobes (not to mention saving a few folks who needed medical transplants), and did he even get the Nobel Prize? Nope. But he got rich, and maybe he’s spreading some of it around here._

_Asked how she felt about her government education funds being replaced by our “anonymous” donor, nineteen-year-old Locust, a returning student with grafted earlobes and a chain mail sarong said, “Like I care who pays?” Asked how she felt about sharing her school with gene freaks she said, “You think they’ll be weirder than me?”_

 

 

“Rustle, time to wake up. You have orientation today.”

The voice was white and pine scented—it was Abraham Lincoln after all—and Rustle replied, “Yes, Sir.”

He’d pulled the audio device from the Lincoln toy in a set of collectible dolls and hooked it into an alarm clock. The miniature President Lincoln now held a Ballerina Barbie voice box; the Barbie connected to an R2D2 sound card; and R2D2 incorporated a cuckoo clock that sounded when a screwdriver (or other metal) touched the droid’s side. The toys were all Rustle had unpacked. They lined a shelf over his desk, about two meters away from his bed, the entire width of his private room.

A hazy brown rumbled across his body. If he was sharing a room would he have put the toys out first? Of course he would. People back home thought they were cool, and any typ who didn’t like it could—could just stay out of his room.

It wasn’t a big enough room to encourage company anyhow. Even the bed seemed intentionally narrow.

Rustle rolled off and headed out to the bathroom as his phone started streaming the latest headlines to one ear. The expert system must have used his new GPS readings and the student ID uploaded to his phone in selecting his top priority. He listened to an editorial from the school paper then shut it off.

As he headed back into his room, the door across the hall opened. The guy coming out was just Rustle’s height and build, though his skin and hair were much darker. He was wearing blue pajama bottoms and a white tee shirt. When he raised his hand in a sleepy wave, the spread of fingers held Rustle’s eye. There were six of them.

“Hi, I’m Bill. I guess we’re going to be neighbors.”

Rustle forced his glance back to Bill’s eyes and said, “I’m Rustle.” There was a pause while he tried and rejected several follow-up sentences.

“Good to meet you.” Bill nodded and started down the hall toward the bathroom.

“Yeah, good to meet you,” Rustle said to his back. As soon as he was safe in his room he leaned his head back against the wall. “Flying purple pestilence,” he swore to himself. He pulled out his phone and sent his mom the editorial he’d heard about Hershenstein’s mysterious donor with the added comment, “Flying into purple.” He didn’t care how his mom understood it, since he didn’t know what he meant.

 

Orientation took place on the top floor of the concrete monstrosity closest to the parking lot. Rustle was trying not to impose colors onto his new surroundings, but the building acquired a dirty brown haze in his mind. The upstairs was furnished like a late-twentieth-century restaurant. Dumb wood tables and chairs were scattered about on a carpet of large red diamonds intersected by smaller yellow ones. The diamonds triggered a jumpy feeling in his middle, but Rustle just looked away.

He plopped into a boxy chair with no lumbar support and turned to face a screen that now glowed at the front of the room. Half the seats were still empty, and Rustle hoped there would be something to entertain those who came on time while they waited for the rest.

Instead, the screen filled with footage of gasoline cars pulling into the mammoth parking lot outside. Rustle couldn’t help seeing them enclosed in a brownish haze, but maybe that was real. Hadn’t they made that kind of pollution?

“The grounds of Hershenstein University were once the site of ‘The Nut Tree,’ a popular stopover on the drive between Sacramento and the San Francisco Bay Area.”

Horns sounded while purple and teal flashed through Rustle’s vision and distorted the documentary into something even more surreal. No wonder it was called Nutty U. There actually used to be a tourist trap called “The Nut Tree.” How pathetic. He glanced at footage of polyester-clad families buying giant lollipops and riding a miniature train, while he surfed for “Nut Tree” links to send his mom.

 

The next activity was a mixer. By now there were at least two hundred students in the room. A flock of cheerful staff in recycled paper school blazers, customized with the Hershenstein logo, came through making each student draw a name tag sticker from a hat, but the stickers didn’t have names. Rustle’s said, “A bird in hand…” He laughed at the innuendo and saw the guy next to him had “…Shouldn’t throw stones.” Trite sayings for all; the lime green registrar was soon exhorting them to get up and mingle.

Rustle was glad to at least know the completion of his aphorism. Some of those he passed seemed obscure, though he rather envied “…Where it spins” and “…Stay a while.” He walked slowly, holding his tag up in front of him, and planning what to say when he spotted a match.

Then the woman from the roof was in front of him saying, “We meet again.” Her sticker said, “…Is worth two in the bush,” and she shimmered around the edges with his sudden hot pink paranoia. How had she manipulated the name tags? He’d drawn his out of a bowler with plenty to choose from, and he’d seen the guy after him draw “…Shouldn’t throw stones.”

Of course, she could have seen his tag and traded with someone to get the other half. What was she, his stalker? The colors from the day before, the green/violet/teal/pink tangled him again, just like when she’d decoded his censored speech patterns and guessed he was synesthetic.

“Well, my name’s still Marie. I don’t think I ever got yours.” Her hair was pulled back, unattractively he thought, in a wavy silver clip. She wore a striped net top over some kind of plasticized body suit. The look was a little young, but probably more hip than yesterday’s overalls. He considered not giving his name, then realized she could do a photosearch if she was that determined. Or maybe she already knew and was just playing games.

“Rustle,” he said.

“Russell.” she repeated. He didn’t have to hear the difference to know it was there.

“Spelled R-U-S-T-L-E. It’s a synesthetic intunity thing.”

“Got it. So where do you want to sit?”

“Huh?”

“We’re supposed to sit together, once we complete the saying.”

“Actually, I need to leave early. Sorry.”

With half a smile and half a wave, he took off, fleeing the tangled mass of colors she inspired and figuring anything he needed they’d send him electronically.

 

 

 

## 

## 

## 

##  **Chapter 3**

##  _San Francisco Chronicle               Friday, Sept. 16, 2072_

_Exercising Their Right to Sue_

_By Sharice Cosby, Chronicle Correspondent_

_Jexsemeny Jenescence stands barely one meter tall, and was raised in a dwarf intunity, but says her height will make no difference in the courtroom. “If they take away our rights to education and medical care but leave us the rights to practice law and file suit, of course they’re going to see us in court,” said Jenescence, a recent graduate of Bennett School of Law who passed the bar last spring._

_Bennett School of Law is not large, powerful, or well-funded. Not a single student there receives educational or medical benefits. That’s because not a single student there is genotypical. In most parts of the country, a law school for non-typicals would be unthinkable. That population is poor, often born without medical planning due to ignorance or religious beliefs. Few of them go to school, let alone college, let alone law school._

_But in California, where 80% of non-genotypicals are born inside intunities, most of which operate quite respectable schools and medical services of their own, the picture is a little different. So far, over a hundred non-typicals have graduated from Bennett and fifty-three have taken and passed the California bar exam. (An unknown number did not take the exam, planning to use their education in other ways.)_

_What do these unusual attorneys hope to accomplish? Some plan to help their communities with everyday matters such as real estate or investment law. A few are fighting to delist their differences. And many plan to challenge laws limiting the rights of the non-genotypical._

_The first laws denying federal medical benefits to those born with certain screenable genetic differences were passed in 2031. Over the next two decades, as federal entitlements increased and health care infrastructure failed, further laws were passed requiring extensive genetic screening to be eligible for benefits. By 2048, no institution that accepted non-genotypicals could receive government funds._

_More lawsuits have been filed on behalf of non-genotypicals in the last five years than in the preceding thirty._

 

The second week of school brought a plague of activism and political signs. One morning, Lincoln woke Rustle into a world of stickers and posters on every lamppost and wall. The most popular was “Free Love, Free Recombination,” which bounced like an eager purple puppy everyplace that Rustle looked. Someone had picked up on Nutty U’s policy to admit non-typs and was planning to make use of it, even if their message didn’t fit most intunities’ ideals. Another sign announced: “Use My Mind, Use My Genome.” Rustle thought that might better suit some of the isolationists back home, but he’d never been much for politics. At least he didn’t see any hate messages, like the confetti from the drones on his way to school.

Nearly hidden amongst the genetics-oriented signs was a small green paper that said, “Free your mind, turn off your phone.” Rustle tore that one down without any sense of color or emotion; it seemed not just out of place but stupid, as far as he could tell.

He checked his phone for the local “What’s New?” and saw “Exercising Their Right to Sue” topped the list. He only read enough to confirm “Their” meant intunites, then checked for messages with nearly sincere disinterest. The only one was a drawing from his mom. It was mostly maroon, which was always sad for her, but Rustle couldn’t understand more than that. Turning for a moment, he snapped a photo of the view back toward his dorm and sent that in reply.

His dad hadn’t sent anything. No one else from home had either, and while Rustle could have retrieved their contact info, without his web room, it all seemed like too much bother. A hot pink lump of paranoia settled like a stone in his gut, and he tried to wash it away by appreciating his independence.

Then he headed up the steps to his history class, which was taught in a large, wedge-shaped auditorium, but the doors were still locked when he tried to enter. Among the dozen students already waiting was Bill, his neighbor from across the hall. A quick glance at his hands confirmed it.

“Hi, Bill,” he said, starting to wave, then cutting the motion off.

Bill smiled in recognition, “Rustle, hi. Looks like someone didn’t unlock the class.”

“Maybe it’s cancelled.”

“No such luck, I already checked.” Bill tapped the phone behind his ear as he said it.

There was a slightly long pause while Rustle sorted through replies. What would a typ say? And would it be the right thing to say to Bill?

“You picked up a flyer?” Bill asked, pointing just one finger at Rustle’s hand.

Rustle realized he was still clutching the anti-phone posting. He turned it so Bill could see before he crumpled it and threw it into recycling by the door. “Just too stupid.”

“Yeah,” said Bill, “and it distracts from what’s important, like what brought us all here.”

Rustle shrugged, not sure he wanted to talk politics, but Bill plunged ahead as Rustle’s mind supplied a dusty brown backdrop.

“The idea that I shouldn’t get school or medical because I have an extra finger on each hand when some people graft on extras that don’t even work—but they don’t lose their benefits. I’d amputate my pinkies if it would solve anything.”

Rustle’s shock must have shown. Bill quickly waved his hands and said, “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think anyone should have to change. Parents should have the right to choose, and kids shouldn’t be excluded, even if they have higher medical costs or special needs. If babies who’ve been all messed up in car crashes are still entitled, why not us?”

At home Rustle had dodged uncomfortable questions with answers like, “We smolder like jungle wind.” At Nutty U, people talked about politics as casually as they discussed their class list. Rustle figured he had to try. It was clear Bill had identified him as an intunite, but Rustle still wanted an answer that would camouflage his background. He settled for: “It’s all about money.”

Bill reacted with some of the uncertainty the “jungle wind” remark would have triggered at home, but not for long. He said, “You mean just the higher medical payments?”

Rustle didn’t want to get into this, but it seemed necessary, and they were standing in front of a history classroom. “Fifty years ago, only rich people could afford genetic screening, but that just made poor people mad. So they made it part of the new national health care. Then the rich started selecting for intelligence or athletic skills. The money for that was going overseas, since we didn’t allow it here. Money going out, costs up at home—Congress ruled that some conditions must be tested for and corrected, all other modifications were illegal, or you opted out of the system.”

“But the things they chose were stupid.”

“That’s politics.” Rustle tried to ignore the brown clouds condensing around their words that made him want to flee and never talk politics in public again.

“Other countries let the gen-engineering craze sort itself out.”

“They had other problems.”

“Some are way ahead of us now.”

“Some are in civil war.”

“What kind of intunity are you from, anyway?”

Rustle studied Bill, who stood waiting for a reply. He looked relaxed, in extremely pale jeans and a faded black shirt, like a typ in a magazine ad, except for the extra fingers. A gray coolness emanated from Bill to Rustle, making him feel oddly safe despite the risky brown conversation. Around them, other students were having their own conversations or checking their phones. If he couldn’t get out of answering, at least no one would overhear.

“Synesthetic.”

Bill nodded, like he knew the term, and asked, “You think it’s worth it?”

Rustle shrugged, and stared at the classroom doors as if he could encourage them to open by watching. He remembered the last time he’d played blind man’s bluff as a child. The bravest kids had tugged his shirt or hair from behind. He’d been too young to question the white lightening that flashed despite his blindfold when a friend called, “Over here!” or the jags of tomato red that crackled around him as he stumbled forward, arms stretched in front of his face.

His steps had taken him into cool shade, and a quick “Hey, Rustle!” had flashed, leading him forward. His knees had hit first, and then his hands had sunk into the growling mud. He’d smeared real brown across the blindfold as he’d yanked it away and wondered how parents could let a child be blind. He’d hate it. He was covered with mud. If he was blind, he’d hate his parents, wouldn’t he?

Rustle hadn’t connected his thoughts about being blind to anything about being synesthetic for a long time. He didn’t want to think about it now, didn’t want to discuss his opinions, even as the silence stretched. Bill seemed at ease, leaning against the wall as two full minutes passed. When the doors finally swung open, apparently on automatic, Bill headed right and Rustle chose left.

 

As he sat down, his phone caught an e-flyer and chirped. Rustle almost deleted it in annoyance, but the word “party” caught his eye.

 

History 101 Study Party – Shatter your mind with facts and friends – Chomsky Common Room tonight at 9

 

A study party might or might not be fun, but it added that extra bit of interest to keep Rustle awake during class. The wide, well-furnished lecture hall was air-conditioned, but only enough to allow pleasant napping. Did they do that on purpose to challenge the students or was it an energy conservation measure? The lecturer for this class was an ancient woman with tight gray curls. The media screens behind her shifted through stills and video reenactments of pre-photography American colonies, but her words passed over Rustle in a gray buzz. At least they weren’t studying anything recent. Checking out his classmates, he noticed Benjamin from the bus and a curvaceous woman with long blond hair who seemed to be soldering metal ornaments onto her nails. He couldn’t even see Bill. From a class of over a hundred, who would show up at a study party?

 

Chomsky was Rustle’s assigned dorm, and he’d already been through the common room enough to see it with a cloudy, powdered aura of familiarity. He couldn’t quite shake the colored auras from his life, or even some of the scent crossovers, but maybe that didn’t matter. For the most part, he could ignore them. His speech was quickly adapting, and no one here had known him before. Editing out all sensory references might make him sound a little boring, and he couldn’t dodge questions as easily as he used to, but he was ready to mingle.

After plodding through other homework from dinnertime until 9:20, he swung into the common room, phone in hand, as if he were between other events in a busy life. He couldn’t immediately recognize anyone from history class, but there was definitely a group gathered around a circular table with open hard-copy history books and a bag of potato chips. The bulletin board above them, which he hadn’t yet read, seemed more interesting than they did, emitting a soft puff of cloudy white as he glanced that way.

Another bag of chips spilled onto a low table by the fire. Four students sat cozily on a sofa facing the fire while two more had infi-just chairs pulled up beside the coffee table. There was soda in a cooler at one end of the sofa. Rustle recognized one of the women from class. She had long, straight blond hair, currently pulled over her shoulder. She wasn’t the one who’d been soldering her nails, but he was sure he’d seen her that day. Her lips pursed, preparing to speak, and a pink cloud formed around her. The rest around the fire looked familiar, but they could just be fixtures in this common room. All six of them were staring at their phones. An extroverted type with a stylish slouch in an infi-just chair was talking, amplifying the grainy whiteness of the room. As he stopped, the blond took over, still clouded in pink; she was obviously reading from her phone. Some of the words might have been about American colonies. Rustle moved close enough to confirm they were reciting history notes by turn, that the fire was fake and not even warm, and that all the visible sodas were diet.

The woman at the end of the sofa looked up. She had dark skin and eyelids that stretched tautly to her cheekbones. It had to be a deliberate effect; a surgeon correcting some problem would have taken pains to leave no trace. Her glance hit his phone, then his face, and she smiled at him. “Wanna join us?”

“Sure.” Rustle shrugged. The woman stood up with a roll of her shoulders and chest that drew Rustle’s eye through ripples of watery green.

“I’m Kat-rina.” She said the name in two parts, the “Kat” very clipped and the “rina” long and low. He wondered if that was required pronunciation or just affectation, but didn’t resist when she took his hand and led him to a corner of the room, facing the walls. No one from her group by the fire paid any attention, but Rustle caught a few quick glances from the printed book set at the table.

“Here, take these, they’ll help your memory,” Katrina said, as she slid two round, orange pills into his hand.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Mem-u-solve II,” she purred, and when he looked blank she said, “It’s safe. Just stimulates neural activity for a couple hours. Gives some people perfect recall, and it helps everyone I know.”

Rustle knew he shouldn’t take drugs from a stranger, but she was in his history class. He thought he even remembered seeing her there, though she wasn’t pulsing lime green at the time. Still, he’d tried plenty of drugs before this. His intunity encouraged most sorts of inner experiences, and the kids took that to include those produced in a lab, so he dry-swallowed the round, orange pills.

Katrina stroked his arm as she led him back to the group, where she made everyone else scoot over so she could fit him between herself and the end of the sofa. He leaned out on the armrest feeling more than a little squished, but Katrina’s bottom and thigh pressed alongside his like a silver hope of scoring. It was the closest he’d come to a woman since leaving home.

He triggered his phone and caught several sets of study notes. “Take yours electronically next time,” the guy with the stylish slouch said. “Just get what you can but make sure it’s accurate. Sucks to waste your memory on other people’s mistakes.”

The group went back to reading in turn, each reciting one sentence from their combined set of notes. Rustle drifted as waves of heat reached him from the fake fire and the thigh pressed against his. Whenever he glanced at Katrina he smelled salty overtones. Once she accidentally dropped her phone in his lap and her touch on his thigh as she reached for it was like silver spun from her fingers. The room became cloudier and cloudier, powdery-white like his room at home. Katrina took on a black aura, not unusual for someone he found attractive, and the rest of the group drifted into soft-focus familiarity, much quicker than new friends usually did. When the sounds of their voices developed distracting smells, tar from apparent group leader, spearmint from the blond, salt and vinegar from Katrina, Rustle was so caught up he almost missed his turn to read.

At eleven o’clock they called it quits. He added contacts to his phone’s “friends” list and linked more of their history notes to his, then stood around chatting with Katrina and Rob-O, who’d been sitting almost hidden on her other side.

“I’m signed up for Capoeira on the weekend, and I’m not even sure what it is,” Rob-O said at some point, and Katrina tousled his hair. Rustle guessed that they were intimate and tried to ignore the brown displaced from Rob-O’s hair. He was sure no one else could see it.

“I wanted music appreciation, but it was full,” Katrina said. Her rolling eyes produced a symphony in black and silver, and Rustle wished she could appreciate it as he did. The conversation had sifted down to just the three of them.

“What did you get instead?” Rustle asked.

“Intro to Visual Art.”

“You sound like an artist.” Rustle regretted the words almost immediately, worrying that “sound” was too atypical in this context.

Rob-O rolled his eyes and Katrina quickly glanced his way. Rustle wondered if his comment sounded synesthetic or just stupid. He tried to recover: “I meant, the way you introduced yourself before, and the inflections when you speak, that seems very artistic, whether you’re doing drama or music or visual arts.”

She rippled like a hissing black snake but didn’t say anything for a moment. “If my stereo system worked, I’d show you what I can do with music.”

Particles of brown seemed to crumble off Rob-O as he said, “Your system’s broken again?”

She shrugged a cascade of salty, black ripples and said, “I hate rewiring.”

Out of the cold Rustle said, “I could help you sometime.”

Katrina brushed her hand across his chin, startling a new wave of black across his vision, and he figured he just didn’t know the code. Rob-O tugged her arm on the other side, and they both said quick goodbyes.

In bed that night Rustle tried to test his heightened memory of history, but all he could recall was Katrina’s warm thigh against his. The salt and vinegar smell of her voice entangled his dreams.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Chapter 4**

##  _USA Now                   Saturday, Sept. 17, 2072_

_Designer Drugs Built by Phone_

_By Wanda Balrones, Now Correspondent_

_“Twelve days to a perfect mind,” reads the ad for Kada’s latest over-the-counter psychopharm kit. The Mind Writer 2073 comes with a well-stocked home pharmacy of mood regulators, stimulants, and eroticizers. But it’s not the drug selection that Kada’s counting on for sales, it’s the user interface._

_Mind Writer 2073 converses with you via your phone. First a receptionist calls to discuss what type of advisor you’d like, male or female, sympathetic or efficient. Your advisor then calls to conduct your preliminary interview, then your little black Mind Writer 2073 box dispenses your first dose. From then on, you call your advisor or wait for regular follow-up calls, after each of which your drug combination is adjusted._

_Kada spokespeople claim that within twelve days, 90% of trial users felt their kit provided just what they needed._

_How is this different from working with a very attentive psychiatrist? For one thing, your Mind Writer advisor lives in that little black box. Users aren’t interacting with a person, just sophisticated software scripts and recorded voice technology._

_Traditional psychiatrists are not impressed. Dr. Lloyd of “Living with Lloyd” fame says, “These are merely over the counter pharmaceuticals adjusted by self-report. It’s the parents’ version of what college students do with antidepressants, aphrodisiacs, and memory drugs. This device collects no DNA, understands no underlying conditions.”_

_Asked if the Mind Writer 2073 could be dangerous, Dr. Lloyd said, “All self-treatment is potentially dangerous. Like the junkie who starts out self-medicating for anxiety and ends up dead, any long-term use of psychoactive drugs should be overseen by a medical professional.”_

_Dr. Lloyd’s advice will likely go unheeded as use of non-prescription drugs continues to climb among all age groups, and drug-related industries remain the strongest sector of the economy for the third quarter in a row. Kada reports that orders for Mind Writer 2073 have already exceeded supply, and customers may have to wait six to eight weeks before they start counting those “twelve days to a perfect mind.”_

 

 

The day after the study party, Rustle finished breakfast and wandered into the Chomsky common room. Vivid images from the night before drifted through his mind. They were tantalizing, shrouded in black and salty silver. Rustle started to search on his phone for info about last night’s drug, but ended up staring at dull psychopharm publicity pieces until he put the phone away.

A cleaning bot rolled in, about the size and shape of a round wastebasket turned on its side, so the narrower end faced forward. It hummed a quiet vacuum and proceeded from door to corner and along the next wall until it turned at an unmarked point and vacuumed an inwardly diminishing rectangle.

When it encountered a chair, a narrow metal arm with four elbow-like joints extruded from what, on a house pet, would be the mouth. The arm/tongue slid forward to shine a light under the chair, then the soft hum of vacuum was replaced by a more wheezy whine as the bot cleaned the confined space.

Rustle watched it finish that rectangle and start on another.

“Bot, can you talk?”

It didn’t answer.

He walked over and moved the bot to a new section of the room. It started a new rectangular pattern including the nearest wall. When finished, it returned to where Rustle had abducted it and continued with its cleaning in progress.

Rustle got up and moved the bot to the middle of the first rectangle cleaned. The bot moved to a new area not previously cleaned, and began its routine. This section contained the coffee table by the fire. The bot retrieved an empty cereal box from the tabletop and wheeled it to a section of wall near the door. Without any visible trigger, a wall panel clicked and slid up. The bot dropped the cereal box into a low bin where Rustle recognized last night’s bags of chips and some pizza boxes. Not bad for a bot that couldn’t even talk. When it finished the rectangle by the coffee table, it went back to where Rustle had last interrupted its progress.

Rustle wandered over to the Chomsky Hall bulletin board. It was an old cork board with paper and pushpins, just behind where the geeky crowd had sat the previous night. There were notices for lost shoes and wanted roommates and also a large, smart-paper sign-up sheet for dorm jobs. The print at the top claimed every resident needed to do one each month. Rustle checked his phone and found that requirement was in his housing contract. He scanned down the list of jobs.

“Check common area windows and entrance light at dusk,” was already claimed for every night. It must be pretty easy, since those windows and lights were on a timer. Did they break down enough to warrant checking, or was it hard to find real jobs for everyone?

“Tidy common room” had no one signed up for any of its once-a-week slots, but “Water gardens” was claimed for every week but this one. Sensing a good opportunity, Rustle signed up for the gardens, then having nothing else scheduled for the morning, he wandered out to try watering.

The sun was already high and warmed his skin. For a moment Rustle saw all the colors around him just as they were. He heard the distant conversations and footsteps of other students, and the sounds were simple and unadorned. Then someone approaching Chomsky glanced his way and caught his eye for a moment. Rustle felt a light pink fuzz along his arms as he wondered whether it was normal to say “hi” or nod when caught looking at a typ. Or was the other student a typ? Rustle had averted his eyes instantly and now he walked toward the garden without looking back, still wondering what word or gesture might have been most appropriate.

Like the odd assortment of buildings on campus, the gardens had a severe “negotiated by committee” gestalt. A couple meters in from the old oval of train tracks was a lesser oval of fence, never more than a meter high, sometimes wood, sometimes stone, sometimes polystyrene. In one place it was hand-tiled mosaic on concrete. In another, stones seemed to have been stacked without any mortar, just a strong belief in gravity and friction. One section was made entirely of popsicle sticks, glued in a honeycomb pattern and coated with some sealant that was probably stronger than the original sticks. The whole barrier developed a golden shimmer, but Rustle tried not to even see it.

Within the fence, styles were just as unsettled. There were several long rows of root vegetables and cabbage-style plants. Fairly ordinary planters reached from ankle to waist height in scattered locations. A rock garden spread outward from one place on the stone wall, and a cactus garden reached toward it from the center of the garden. A trellis nailed onto a windmill supported something like miniature pumpkins, while blue tomatoes climbed another broken lattice. Rustle did a double take, but they really were blue.

Just inside the wall was a dirt path lined with benches and plain ceramic pots. Most of the pots had nothing growing in them. Other paths radiated through the garden like spokes on a wheel. They were covered with gravel, except for one that led from the center to a gate by a flagpole. It had been partially covered in flagstone. Rustle had passed through the garden several times on his way to the bookstore or the pool, and he’d always tried to limit his senses to just the smells, sights, and sounds already there. He thought of it as practice for a normal life.

By the front gate, a covered bulletin board made of smart-paper protected by a thick layer of plastic drew Rustle’s eye with a notice titled “WATERING.” An entire paragraph explained how NOT to disturb the automated irrigation systems and controls. Students were responsible for various jobs, including hand-watering starter pots, which already listed Rustle’s name next to a bold-faced indictment to “keep moist.” Further instructions told where to find and fill a watering can. This seemed like make-work to Rustle, since an automated system could easily use sensors to maintain a specified soil moisture, but if it was the second most popular job on the sign-up sheet, it must be pretty good.     

Soon he’d found and filled a smooth, plastic watering can and begun to stick his fingers into various pots of soil. Just starting out, he almost ran into Marie. She instantly strobed green and pink in his vision, and he resented her sudden disruption of his senses. He’d just about tripped over her as she crouched next to a flower bed, and the water in his can swooshed disapprovingly. Rustle sensed a frame. Had she followed him here? But there was a pile of weeds beside her, and he had just chosen this job minutes before.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

Marie looked up and wiped grubby hands against the legs of her dirty canvas overalls. Her hair was back; a few damp locks had escaped and clung defiantly just beyond her eyes, tangling with pink wisps he didn’t want to see. “Weeding,” she said as if he was dim, “and let me guess, you’re watering?”

He nodded, and was about to walk past when her shoulders slumped and she looked away. “Listen, did I do something to offend you? If I seemed too weird or something on the roof, I guess I just thought you were okay to talk to.”

“Naw,” he said. The green and pink that had ringed Marie instantly dissolved. Had his perceptions changed that suddenly, or was he just learning to be normal? Were his suspicions misplaced or just missing their colors?

“‘Naw’ you’re not okay or ‘naw’ you’re not offended?”

“I didn’t mean to be rude,” he said, wanting to shove his hands in his pockets and rediscovering the water can he held, which was getting heavy. “I just didn’t want any more of their orientation. Now I really should go water.”

“Oh, okay.” Marie turned right back to her pile of weeds, and Rustle wasn’t sure if she believed him or not.

He worked his way around the edge of the garden, going from one starter pot to another. All of them were quite dry, and none showed any sign of life. Everything he was watering had probably already died from lack of attention. Either that, or no one had signed up for this week because the seeds or whatever weren’t planted yet. Rustle tended to all the apparently lifeless pots, until he could no longer keep Marie out of his thoughts.

He put the watering can back on its hook and hurried to where she was working. “You wanna get coffee or something?”

She raised her eyebrows to peer up at him.

He waited.

“I’m kind of a mess,” she said, motioning at her dirty overalls. When he didn’t comment she said, “We could get something from the snack bar in my building and sit out under a tree if you want.”

“Sure.” Rustle shrugged and stood with his hands in his pockets as Marie processed the weeds in a whirring mulch machine, put away tools, and washed her hands.

“This way,” she said, and headed down the flagstone path. There were sunflowers growing to one side, glittering with diffracted light in his vision. Rustle tried not to see them.

As they left the oval of the garden and a gate auto-shut behind them, he could feel vibrations in the ground and hear a rubbing noise to his left. Something like a holiday park paddleboat was creeping along the railroad tracks. It was powered by a muscular man in gray shorts and a tee shirt who pumped at foot pedals welded onto a gear set-up over small-gauge train wheels.

When the man and contraption had passed, leaving a plum afterimage in his mind, Rustle glanced at Marie, who stepped across the train tracks saying, “I guess if you have tracks, someone will find a way to use them.”

“Must have been some work to build.”

“Yeah, I’d like to build something big like that.”

“You would?” he asked, voice inadvertently rising. Hadn’t he just been thinking that himself? The words absorbed the plum ghost from his sight.

“Sure, everything I build is microscopic. Since I got fed up with the science fair, I don’t even build presentations.”

“What’s a science fair?”

 She looked at him sideways. “Oh, students perform experiments, build displays, collect random abuse from the ethics committee or the judges.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind, I’m just a bit bitter.”

But she wasn’t bitter, more like an exotic tea, a flavor he couldn’t fit into known words. Something about her still scratched when he rubbed the wrong way. The garden thing couldn’t be a set-up; he’d suggested getting coffee; and the nametags could have been a coincidence. Was it just their different backgrounds? For the first time in weeks, he knew this was someone he wanted to talk to, even if their conversation on the roof hadn’t made a lot of sense.

“So you’re from an intunity of divergent thinkers?”

“Yeah, we’re one of the groups in court right now to get our genetics delisted.”

“Really?” He’d never paid much attention to such hopeless efforts. “So what exactly is divergent thinking?”

They passed through a grove of trees behind the flagpole and came out onto a mini-quad he hadn’t visited before. A quick consult with his phone told him this was grad student country.

Marie climbed the steps to Erni Hall as if she’d lived there forever and motioned him to a snack bar on the right side of the main room. Overhead, the ten-meter ceiling, made of marble or some synthetic look-alike, hung with grapefruit-sized light globes that dangled where there might have been chandeliers.

The concession stand was just an ordinary menu on touchscreen above a service window. Rustle selected iced coffee, and let the machine sense the student ID in his phone and debit his account. A white cup dropped behind a clear window, ice fell, coffee squirted. The window unlocked, and he withdrew his drink. Marie claimed a pink Italian soda and then answered his question as they walked back to the lawn beside the quad.

“Legislators called it ‘disordered thinking’ when they first passed the screening laws. Some claimed it was a dissociative disorder, but the opposite is closer to true. How’s your neuroscience?”

“So-so,” he said as they claimed a raised spot under a chestnut tree.

“You know about the Frith area in the right parietal lobe?”

“Uh, no.” He sipped his coffee.

Marie nodded, set down her soda, and brought her hands forward to help explain. Rustle saw her fingers trail streamers of lime green and pink, but he tried to follow the words too. “Several sections on the left side of your brain work together to coordinate what might be called your belief system.”

She paused with a spike of green from her left hand; he nodded.

“Other areas on the right side of your brain break in sometimes when you’re challenging your beliefs. The Frith area can play the devil’s advocate or trigger a paradigm shift.”

A steady pink haze grew until he nodded again.

“Some people have a genetic predisposition to more activity in that area, causing more rapid restructuring of beliefs and a heightened ability to evaluate parallel systems of belief, shifting their probabilistic assessments of each, rather than ignoring new data or having to revise one core structure.”

Rays of violet began to intrude. “You mean they change their minds a lot?”

“No,” she spread her fingers and said evenly, “Not necessarily. Evidence on what’s now called divergent thinking shows that it generally allows more accurate processing of diverse data. So in a field with rapid discoveries, divergent thinkers may change their minds more or admit to more possibilities at each point. But in most circumstances, they just see more alternatives, a form of creativity.”

Rustle sipped iced coffee as the violet, pink, and lime diffused like melting sherbet.

“Let me give an example.” Marie held out her right hand. “Purists might say ‘fire’ and ‘germs’ are old-fashioned, inaccurate concepts.” She held out her left hand. “But if I want to know what can burn my skin, grouping burning wood with the sun and lightning is useful. If I want to understand chemical components, it’s useful to group burning wood with rusting, calxification, and bodily metabolism. Likewise, a concept of ‘germs’ is useful when I remember to wash my hands or consider how a new disease is transmitted. But setting up growth medium in the lab, my knowledge of viruses needs to be distinct from my thoughts about bacteria.

“Using both frames of reference, having a mind that seeks out any useful perspective, can keep Icarus far enough from the sun or lead to viral design components specialized virologists might not consider.”

Was her explanation unusually scattered, because of her divergent thinking? Did he come across as uninterested or distracted as he tried to remove all descriptors from his speech and pretended her waving hands didn’t spread distracting colors? He tried for a normal reply, “So why’d they ban it?”

“Why’d they ban hearing smells or tasting sounds?”

He wanted to say something glib, but felt a rising violet and couldn’t think fast enough. Or maybe it just wasn’t appropriate. “I’m not sure how synesthetic I am, but whatever I have still distracts me wisps of color that follow your hands while you talk.”

She pulled her hands together in a disordered clash and stifled them in her lap. “Does that always happen when people gesture?”

“No, not like that. I’m fairly consistent with colors representing emotions, what they used to call color-mood synesthesia, but it’s usually just one color like an aura around someone, something, or someplace.”

“You mentioned the wisps following my hands as if they created a problem.”

“No.” Did he? “It just might be more training than genes, I think, sometimes.” “So your intunity thinks it’s worth training?”

“They say we ‘more fully experience our lives,’ that to be typical is to be partially deaf, dumb, blind, anosmic, and tasteless.”

He smiled, but she seemed to miss the joke. As she lifted her nearly full Italian soda, its pinkness drifted toward plum as a shadowy haze formed.

“You use imagery to remember numbers too?”

“Yeah, though not as well as some real synesthetics.”

“By ‘real’ you mean more genetic indictors?”

“Dunno, we don’t test.”

Her mouth opened in silence for a moment. “Are you isolationists? Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. But I thought the groups that wouldn’t test at all or contract with outsiders wouldn’t send representatives here.”

He shrugged and set down his empty cup. “Views within the intunity vary, I guess, but you should be good at dealing with that. What got your group banned anyway if it’s all so useful and that?”

“Well, divergent thinking’s more helpful in some situations than others, and there’s a long history of governments silencing those who question too much. Mostly politicians and voters don’t want to admit how complicated the brain is. There are still things about the banned alleles that we don’t understand, not to mention their dependence on environmental and other factors. Divergent thinking may be the primary effect. But some of the neural activity triggered in the temporal lobe may heighten emotional range, a mixed blessing at best. Our sequence combined with other sequences or external stressors may lead to mood disorders, schizophrenia, or certain antisocial behaviors. The basic idea of banning individual, nonlethal sequences was always substantially flawed, even within the scientific understandings of the time.”

Rustle didn’t really listen as a dark shading of attraction grew. At least he knew what that black tinge meant, and he didn’t feel like fighting it right now.

There was a long silence, then Marie set down her soda and said, “Tell me about the people you grew up with.”

“I dunno. I guess they’re interested in individual experience. At school we were encouraged to let our minds wander and attend to everything we sensed, external or internal. When we talked to each other, it was fine, even encouraged, to say whatever descriptors came to mind, even if they were idiosyncratic, even if neither speaker nor listener really knew what they mean. Sometimes I didn’t even know which parts came from sensory crossover and which parts I said to fit in.”

“Not knowing bothers you, doesn’t it?”

“Huh? No.”

“Whatever. Talk to me like you would back home.”

“I can’t do it now.”

“Sure you can. Try.”

He had an urge to get up and leave, but the dark cloud growing around her held his attention. He’d been warned about typicals wanting to hear freakish thoughts, but she wasn’t typical either, and he had asked about her differences. He stared out across the little quad, trying to let his home mindset re-create itself.

“The bricks of your building,” he raised his chin toward Erni Hall, “aren’t just brick red; there’s purple seeping out of the cracks. I see purple a lot with things that are unfamiliar, where I feel a little out of place.”

She shifted to face him and tilted her head. “That’s neat, but you wouldn’t say that in a conversation. Would you?”

He squirmed, wormlike in her gaze. He realized he could once again say anything without caring if his listener knew what he meant.

“You used to look green and pink, with some violet confusion thrown in, but now you’re a shadowy mystery. You trigger more colors faster than anyone I remember, and something about you triggers a scent of cinnamon.” He had her full attention, and it made him feel reckless and shadowy himself.

“Last night I took some orange pills, but I can barely remember them as orange because they’re so hot pink to me now. And the people who gave them to me spoke in voices that smelled like tar, spearmint, and salt and vinegar, respectively. The room then seemed cloudy and with occasional traces fo silver, but now in memory a smoky smell seeps in. The people I sat with seem lime green and alien, prickly and bouncy. But I can flick the memory back to exactly how it was in last night’s sensorium, and I think that’s because of the orange pills that were supposed to help me remember history but seem to have just caught my sensory images.”

“Would you tell people that at home? It’s not too personal?”

Rustle didn’t feel like anything he’d said was very personal, but he liked the way she edged closer to him. “A lot of conversation at home was about whatever new experience someone had found. For me, it was easy to talk about drugs or biofeedback I’d tried, because then I had clearly different experiences. Other people could just focus on some flower or phrase they’d overheard, but I didn’t get as much out of that.”

“Do you take any drug you’re offered?”

“Well, usually I check that it’s safe.”

“How?”

“From the packaging or what friends tell me.”

“But you said you’d never had your genetics tested and that your experiences are all individual and idiosyncratic.”

“Well, bad trips are valid experiences too.”

“What if some bad effects are permanent?”

“Don’t you do drugs?”

“Not much.” She shifted her eyes to someplace farther off as she continued, “There are plenty of medicinals designed to interact with divergent thinking or the commonly associated emotional variants. But using them can cause permanent changes, or at least reset neurotransmitters, receptors, or epigenetic markers, and my specific genetics train well through other methods. Part of using my mind effectively is keeping it all accessible and organized. Besides, my thoughts can be a trip without drugs.”

“You’ve never tried anything?”

“Nothing more mind-altering than ibuprofen.”

“Aren’t you curious? You wanted to know how I talk at home. There are drugs that can make us both more that way. We could try it together.”

She pulled back. “Sorry, but no.”

The tension in her made him pull back too, but just for a moment. At the same time she was sheathed in black and smelled like bastilla just torn open. She crackled like phyllo on his fingers and he almost reached out to touch her for real.

“Well, it’s been good talking to you, but I think I should go,” she said.

He shrugged, wanting to hold this moment like his memories of the night before without worrying about the details. He hadn’t told her how they experimented with touch and sensuality at home about the same way they experimented with drugs. That was another aspect of his upbringing he’d hold back until he knew more about others’ expectations.

“See you soon.”

“Yeah,” and she was gone, but the smooth blackness and the cinnamon-sugary chicken stayed rich on his tongue. He lay back on the grass to savor the moment.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

#### Chapter 5

##  _San Francisco Chronicle                     Monday, Sept. 19, 2072_

_San Francisco Hosts World’s Largest Robotics Convention_

_By Jordan Walsh, Chronicle Staff Writer_

_Organizers of the eighth annual International Robotics and Applied Technology Convention, the largest of its kind to date, welcomed over 20,000 official participants this weekend. Keynote Speaker Michael Waint, CEO for Greater Bay Robotics, opened by presenting his new line of self-directed mini-bots, usable for anything from self-cleaning ovens to asteroid prospecting._

_Another popular showpiece was a two-meter-wide, spider-shaped landmine detector. Designed to move four legs at a time, it scans below each leg before touching the ground. Plexibar, creator of the landmine detector, plans to provide two free prototypes to every country that suffered landmine fatalities in 2071._

_Spectators who want to see the latest without buying a full conference membership can sign up for one hour escorted tours of the main convention floor. The tours are conducted by self-propelled robotic people movers that provide synthesized voice commentary and Smart Response™ answers to questions. (Conference runs through 9/25/72. Book tickets through Ticketmaster or the concierge facilities at major city hotels.)_

##  _Far from the Tree                    Monday, Sept. 19, 2072_

#  _Why Are Robots Stuck in a Rut?_

_By Tim Id Not, Tree Correspondent_

_If you’re thinking of cutting class to visit the International Robotics Conference in San Francisco this week, don’t bother._

_The robot guided tour (available through Ticketmaster) will only entertain your ten-year-old niece who’s visiting from Hicksville. Seriously, Epcot is more evolved._

_The only bot company worth seeing on the tour is Tongue Tight. Two women from an MIT lab decided robots might as well sound better than people, so they interpolated brain reactions to speech frequencies and made a portable entertainment bot that modifies its voice tone in response to verbal tones used around it. There’s even more sketchy stuff in the Tongue Tight lit about subvocals and carrier tones, but I’ll tell you, there’s something intriguing about their sample bot._

_The biggest letdown of the show was at the end of the tour. Yes, Virginia, there are still people trying to make robots that look and move like people, but not even Santa can get this one right. Since we already have bots with better speed and precision than any human, maybe we should admit defeat on body language. With so many people crowding up the planet, do we need to see more of the same? At the very least, they could find something better for the end of the tour._

 

 

 

Two days later, as Rustle lay on his bed streaming the local afternoon news about a robotics show, a message broke through on his phone.

“Come over?”

Salt and vinegar—It was from Katrina.

He messaged back: “Where?”

“120 Chomsky”

“On my way”

As she opened the door, his first images were all black, and they weren’t auras induced by his mind. The windows wore black lace curtains. A black satin bedspread enveloped the bed and puddled out across the floor, merging with a pile of pillows, some black and some zebra-striped. The clean-n-find bot was a black scarab, shiny and smudge-free.

Katrina flicked her hair across her cheek, and took his arm even before she said, “Come in.” She paused with him before the desk, blinking up at him with her unnaturally slitted eyes and long lashes. Then just before he felt obliged to say something she smiled as if to say she knew, but wouldn’t let him, and motioned toward an assembly of entertainment devices, all in black. “You said you could help with my rewiring.”

Her voice was warm salt water mixed with vinegar, but her fingers down his arm were ice. All the black in her room pushed at him like he was an accordion pressed in a slow, but rising, tune. He’d always found black erotic, the good, simple part of intimacy. The texture of her curtains and the flow of her bedspread were what his mind might have created, and she looked at him like she knew it, like she assumed all minds would respond to her that way. Then she reached out to the mixer controls as if the whole thing was a joke.

“Can you make these work together? So I can control them with this?”

“This” was a universal remote, a flat black lozenge the size of her palm, which she fondled suggestively. “These” were an eclectic assortment of auditory, visual, and olfactory entertainment devices of mixed quality, none of them particularly expensive, and some of them probably given away free with other purchases.

“I don’t suppose you have the manuals?”

Katrina shook her head gently, and Rustle saw dark wisps beyond the black ribbons of her hair. He began studying the inputs and labels on each device, searching on his phone when he needed a technical manual. Katrina traced the muscles on his arms with the tip of her fingernail, burgundy, not black. But when he looked toward her, thinking she might want to tempt him away from the electronics, she shook her finger and pointed back to her desk of discordant black boxes.

By the time he had two sound systems and a fragrance lamp hooked up, Katrina was tracing the muscles on Rustle’s back through his shirt, and he was wondering if he was really supposed to keep wiring or what. He turned suddenly and caught Katrina in his arms. She arched slightly against him, then pulled away.

“But you’re not finished yet.”

“You’re distracting me.”

“Should I stop?”

“That wouldn’t be my first choice.”

She smiled but pulled away, sliding her hand along his arm until they just touched fingertips. She reached into the top drawer of her dresser and pulled out a little bottle. “Let’s try some different distractions.”

“What’s that?”

“Xtreme VI. You tried it? It’s supposed to heighten your senses.”

“I’ve never seen it as a liquid.”

“That’s for the fragrance lamp. But does the pill form work on you?”

The way she said it, he was sure she knew he was non-genotypical. Was she? How did she know about him?

“It works. Why do you ask?”

“I checked your address in the student directory, silly. A girl can’t be too careful.”

Rustle was momentarily shocked by her use of the word “girl.” Most people he’d known found it extremely offensive, but it did sound like she was teasing and maybe quoting. It took one click through the student link on his phone to find the directory and check his entry: name, home address, phone. He felt naked, even though someone would have to do a search to identify his intunity from the address.

Katrina had released his hand and was dripping Xtreme into the newly networked fragrance lamp. Rustle used the moment to find her entry. The address was San Francisco, a normal city street. Her entry also listed a high school, an ordinary public school. She must be genotypical.

Katrina put the bottle away. Her skirt was black lace, and Rustle didn’t need any sensory enhancement to hear it slide against itself and her legs as she stepped back to him. Her top today was burgundy, like her nails, and there was a golden choker around her neck, no earrings. Rustle wondered if he should have dressed better as he reached out to put his arms around her again, even though his mood had somewhat altered.

She smiled and said, “First things first,” as she nudged him back toward the nest of small devices. She sat back in the chair from the desk and reached a toe, covered in dark tights, to stroke along his leg. Rustle, figuring he understood the rules and not really minding, went back to rewiring. This time, he found the work moderately interesting.

It was only as he finished the last connection that he noticed his leg was screaming from the constant up and down of Katrina’s toe. “All done,” he said, casually shifting his calf away. The slide of his own pant leg as he moved was a stiff brush over lingering scratches, and he realized the Xtreme had taken effect.

Katrina stood facing him, very close, but holding the remote between their chests. The fragrance lamp she didn’t adjust. But she played one sound system, quietly, her ears presumably sensitized too, then the other, leaving one on a steady base riff while the other added some sort of techno-jazz. Then she dialed down the main lights and added black light in a corner where a poster glowed with some old psychedelic rock star’s portrait. She sampled a few projection effects, from movies, through disco balls, to a kaleidoscope of fractal patterns, but eventually set it to just fade faintly between different colored lights.

Rustle took in the changes with drug-heightened awareness, but his own sensory crossover effects seemed out of play. Maybe, aside from his unusual upbringing, he was just a regular guy.

“Let me braid your hair,” Katrina whispered, like it was an indecent proposition.

“It’s not long enough.” His curls were maybe eight centimeters pulled straight, but the idea of having them tugged into braids did not sound appealing and was not at all what he’d been expecting.

“Come on.” She pulled him down into the black and striped pile of pillows and sat mostly across his lap as she began pulling the hair off his forehead. Her presence in his lap got an instant reaction, and he was very sensitive to the warmth of her body where she touched him or came close. But what she was doing to his hair caused sudden sharp pains, as if individual hairs were being torn out. He tried to ignore that. Her breasts were positioned right in front of him, and he might have reached out to touch, but the way she’d pushed him down he was propping himself up from behind with both arms. If he moved one, she’d probably pull his hair. He tried to lose himself in the blackness of the moment, but all the blackness around him was real, not his perception, and it seemed slightly fake.

The discomfort with his hair and restriction of his arms would usually have been a brown infringing on the black of intimacy, but even realizing that, he couldn’t see it. He’d tried Xtreme VI before, so it wasn’t the drug. The absolute realness was like an itch he couldn’t scratch, but he told himself he didn’t need that part; he’d been trying to reduce it. Instead, he concentrated on the feel of Katrina as she shifted slightly to braid further back on his head; that felt good. The pinpricks of the braiding still irritated him. Katrina’s chest had shifted out of his view, but he could smell her skin, clean and slightly spicy, and something jasmine, too faint to be perfume, possibly shampoo or lotion.

When she finished that braid he managed to free one hand and swing it around to her hip. That felt very good, and his own body shifting and pressing against his clothing fed back that extra touch and made him want to do a lot more. Surely this was why she’d brought out the Xtreme.

“Enough braiding,” he said, trying to pull her close for a kiss. She slid up against him, started a very slow kiss, and then slid to his other side and behind to tug on another lock of hair. “Please stop,” he said, the tug of tiny hairs pierced straight into his scalp.

“I like doing this,” she said. “I like the feel of your curls between my fingers. I like your hair.” And her voice held no color or fragrance, but the warm pulsing within and beside him made him endure all the prickling on his scalp.

Finally she was done and she reached around from behind him with both arms and stroked sensuous circles across his abdomen and chest. The flood of sensation drowned every other thought in his mind. Then she pulled away and the absence was stark.

“Let’s dance,” she said, as she fondled the remote and put on something low and deep. He stood, knowing he wasn’t much of a dancer, but she pressed up against him and started to sway with her arms around his neck. He reached around her waist.

“Thanks for wiring everything up,” she said.

“No problem.” He slid his hands a little lower and bent to kiss her again. The kiss was okay, and then she breathed on his ears and got him shivering. He started to gather up her skirt a little, but she eased away, taking him by the hand again.

“I’m glad you came by,” she said.

“I’m glad too.” And only then did he realize they’d stepped beside the door and she was opening it.

“See you again soon.” He nodded and found himself alone in the hall. His body ached to go back and his eyes watered excessively in the bright light. But he started walking back to his room, not even sure if he’d been insulted or just guided through a different set of rules. The pit of his stomach ached, even as other pressures eased. He felt the sore area on his calf rubbing against his pant leg as he headed downstairs. Sensitized hearing made his footfalls loud and clumsy even on the carpeted steps. He remembered the braids in his hair just as he emerged onto his floor. They weren’t tied or tight and he was able to mostly unravel them by pushing his fingers through, as he returned a casual wave from Bill and ducked into his room.

Sitting on the edge of his too narrow bed Rustle couldn’t stand the silence and the coldness of his comforter. He pulled out his phone and began to search. There were a number of Maries in the student directory, but only one listed as a grad student. He searched on her home address and found it was in a divergent thinking intunity, so he rang her up.

 

Ten minutes later, Rustle entered the student center to meet Marie. Wearing sunglasses and blinking from the brightness outside, he made his way to the basement, a grid of plain white halls and rooms he hadn’t visited before. Following the wall on the right as instructed, he soon found Marie in front of a sign that read “storage.” She led him in through a metal door with a traditional key lock. They passed rows of lockers the size of bicycles. Then she used a different plain metal key to open an unmarked door at the back of the aisle.

 “That’s hot,” he said, as heat flowed out from the doorway.

“They’re called steam tunnels for a reason,” she said as they stepped inside. “You might want to take off your sunglasses.”

He did, and wiped at the dampness around his sore eyes. The tunnels were dim, but the cheap LED lights lining the ceiling still shown painfully bright to him, and the warm air made him feel like a marshmallow, roasting.

“Are you on something?” she asked.

“Just Xtreme,” he said, wondering if, with her caution about drugs, she’d even know what it was. On it, he could smell the soap she used and her sweat from whatever she’d been doing in the steam tunnels before. She was wearing a tight Nutty U sweatshirt and baggy pants with extra pockets. He wanted to run his fingers through her shiny hair, but the drug didn’t make him stupid, so he kept his hands to himself.

“Oh. Do you do that a lot? Does it work differently with synesthesia?”

“No, I’ve done it a few times, but I was with someone else who had it in a fragrance lamp. It never seemed to affect the synesthetic part of my thinking before, but now I’m not getting any crossover. Maybe it’s more evidence that I’m not really synesthetic.”

“It’s easy to check the official genetics, you know.”

“Yeah, well.” He’d known that, but he’d never thought about it much until he came here. If he checked and was genotypical, he could apply for new legal status, but what would he tell his parents? Did he even want to know?

There was a long pause as they stood inside the closed door. Rustle adapted to the heat until it was no greater discomfort than sitting too close to a campfire. His eyes were fine if he didn’t look directly at the lights. Garbage, mold, and dust, the dominant smells, seemed unusual but well mixed.

His sense of touch was still troubling. Parts of his calf and scalp hurt, but his skin practically crawled beneath his clothes wanting to be stroked (and more) by Katrina. He told himself he’d been a good sport.

He wasn’t quite sure why he’d called Marie. Standing so close, he couldn’t help wanting to touch her, but how could he put that into normal words without sounding stupid?

“You still want to be here?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Okay, I’ll show you where I was when you called.”

She led him forward, right and then left, through dusty concrete halls barely two meters high. There were two wide pipes, maybe half a meter each in diameter, running one above the other beside where they walked. Several narrower pipes ran alongside or split off. Occasional sounds of clanking or hissing made Rustle jump nearly out of his clothes, but Marie walking ahead didn’t even hesitate, so he guessed it was just his out-of-whack senses.

She stopped abruptly in a seemingly ordinary stretch of tunnel. Rustle let himself bump into her just to feel the cascade of touch input pass through his body. It didn’t feel good exactly; it just took the edge off, a brief sip of water on a hot afternoon. It made him want more.

“Sorry,” he said.

“It’s okay; look.” She pointed between the pipes to a wall covered in a cartoonish mural. Two people with vastly different brush styles had painted a pantheon in cubist caricatures. Even through the pipes it was disturbing, yet attractive, like red flowers to a hummingbird. A gold-skinned woman of exaggerated proportions reclined, eyes closed, eating grapes, but the hand holding the grapes belonged to a ghostly, sketched-in boy of six or seven, fear written in the stoop of shoulders and squint of eyes. A gangly tomboy, in braids and torn jeans sprang realistically from a tree branch above. Further along the same branch, a shadowy figure in lavender and rose dangled dead from a rope, the silhouette of ribs and shoulder implying nudity while the rest offered only blurred androgyny. The mural continued on and on, a parade of humanity mixing accuracy and the half-seen.

“Wow. Can we get through to there?”

“It’ll be tight,” Marie said, but she led him to where they could squeeze between the pipes. “Careful, that one’s hot.”

She didn’t need to tell him. With his senses up, he could feel it from several centimeters away. And the space they backtracked along, on the far side of the pipes, was less than half a meter wide. To avoid touching hot pipes, Rustle slid sideways, letting his back brush against the coarse cement wall. It clawed at his skin and clothing, but after the dearth of new sensations, any touch was welcome. He watched Marie slide along ahead of him, her forest green school shirt stretched tight as she moved. The desire to touch even the fabric of her shirt pulled him forward, and he felt the stirrings he associated with his black mood color, but he still wasn’t feeling synesthetic. It made his desire seem less real but more intriguing, and he remembered the black overtones the last time he’d been with Marie.

When they reached the mural, it wasn’t possible to see it all at once. They could view the full piece from the other side of the pipes, or each figure unobstructed from here, but never both. “The artists must have been really crowded while working on this.”

“I think it’s just one person,” Marie said.

“No. Look at the brushwork; even from the other side, some of these, here and here,” he pointed, “are so different.”

“Read this,” she pointed to an inscription in the far lower corner.

He crouched carefully. “There’s more than one inside of me, and nobody knows. Charlene”

“Huh. I guess it could be for effect.”

“Or DID. There’s no date, and they didn’t have scientific screening for Dissociative Identity Disorder or alternate personalities until relatively late.”

“More likely it’s metaphor.”

“Could be, but I’m good at guessing.”

“Like when you guessed I was synesthetic and should study architecture?”

“Sort of, it’s all divergent thinking. But with you I’d seen you interact, and we’d had most of a conversation. There’s not enough data here.”

“How much data is there? What do you use?”

“I could tell you some of it, but—”

“I wouldn’t understand?”

“Sort of by definition.”

He tried to put his hands on his hips in mock indignation, but there wasn’t enough room to do it right. Marie continued in her too-scientific voice.

“The process is too involved to be conscious. My mind’s good at pulling together seemingly unrelated pieces of knowledge, but I can’t write a proof. I form hypotheses and test them, a sort of folk-psychology, just here I have no way to test.”

“You could search school records for ‘Charlene.’”

“In the last fifty years? There are probably a few. But yeah, I could make a list; find links on all of them; see if any showed other evidence of DID. Or I could just imagine possibilities and let my thoughts branch from there.”

As he was thinking, _not very scientific for a scientist_ , she said, “Do you like the art?”

He looked again, seeing vibrant colors with his altered vision but not adding the richness of cross-senses. He ran a hand down a childish form and relished the smooth coat of paint over the jagged cement.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Should we look for more?”

“Okay.”

They moved back to the open side of the pipes and continued, seemingly at random, past graffiti and a few pictures, but nothing particularly impressive until they reached a round room, a vertical cylinder with a ladder on one side. The space was about three times Rustle’s height, and barely farther across than the span of his arms. Every bit of wall was covered with poetry, all in the same hand.

“She must have brought her own ladder. You can’t reach half of that from the one on the wall.”

“How do you know it’s a she?” Marie asked.

“Looks like a woman’s writing.”

“Yeah, I agree. I was wondering if you could explain your thinking—” She smiled briefly, “Or if you’d found a name.”

There was something in her tone that drew him, but he shook his head and continued reading. Some of the poems appealed more than others, but being surrounded by the words was intense. Strange that there were so few clues about the author, no way to tell age, sex, or when all this was written. It could even be an admirer preserving someone else’s poems, but then surely there’d be an attribution, wouldn’t there?

Rustle started to shiver, despite the heat. He swayed like he’d stood up too fast and went to lean against the ladder attached to the wall. But he continued reading.

“Are you okay?” Marie asked, scanning his face with an intensity he remembered from the roof; she was always searching, somehow.

“Just the drug wearing off.”

“Is it bad?”

“No, not at all, but I’ll want to get home soon.”

She pulled her lips down in an exaggerated frown. “Unless there’s something up there I can unlock, we’ll probably have to trace back the way we came in.”

“Oh, that’s okay.” It would actually be kind of unpleasant if he wasn’t home before his senses cycled all the way down, but he wouldn’t admit that, not to Marie. Why had he come to her? On some level he’d used her as a substitute for Katrina, but if he’d thought it through, he wouldn’t have planned to try anything in his current state. He should have eaten by now; he was going to crash harder than usual, probably be tired and a bit depressed. But he’d known all that before and hadn’t planned ahead. Oh well, at least he could hide it.

“Move for a sec, and I’ll check this exit.”

Rustle moved aside to lean against the relatively chill wall and watched Marie climb up the ladder. Bad as he felt, he couldn’t help appreciating the view from below as she climbed, and some of his usual shadowy blackness crept in with his interest.

He watched her fiddle with a metal key at the top and then climb down.

“No luck. I could try the card scanner if you need to get out fast, but we might catch a little trouble for being here.”

“You’re not supposed to have access?”

“Well, I have my East master key legitimately, and everyone knows students come down here. It just might be officially discouraged.”

She sounded young as she said it.

“Are you really a grad student?” he asked. “You don’t seem any older than me.”

“I’m twenty, but our school works ahead of standards.”

He looked at her, feeling a little spacey, like his senses were fading back to normal, maybe below. He felt dehydrated. And he wanted to touch Marie, not just because she looked great climbing the ladder. Maybe he was starting sensory withdrawal and wanted to connect. He could use that as an excuse, but it would sound pathetic. At home he could have said, “Let me touch you while I’m all backward floating,” and most girls would have been fine with it. But he didn’t know how typs or someone like Marie might say such a thing, and he wasn’t up to figuring it out right now.

She reached forward and put the back of her fingers to his forehead. The shock of coolness and contact cut right through his light-headedness.

“You feel warm; is that normal?” she asked.

“I think so.”

“Anything I can do?”

He made himself walk away rather than say something stupid. “Let’s just go.”

After a couple minutes with him leading she asked, “Are you sure you know the way?”

“No problem.”

“Do you remember it with sensory clues?”

“No.” He looked around, realizing he’d been finding his way without effort. “I can picture the whole route in my head, like a scale model of the passages seen from one corner and a little above.”

“Do you map other things that way?”

He had to think, but examples flowed through his mind. “Yeah, that’s how I picture layouts of this campus, my intunity, several places I’ve only visited in dreams. Is that unusual?”

“Maybe, but I already suggested you become an architect.”

She had, and somehow that felt lemon-yellow good right now. The steam tunnels took on a milky familiarity, and that seemed right as well.

 

##  **Chapter 6**

 

 

##  _San Francisco Chronicle                     Friday, Sept. 23, 2072_

_Teen Fashion – Seen Any New Body Parts Lately?_

_By Stella Wu, Chronicle Correspondent_

_Banya only wears hip hugger jeans and shortie shirts. Does this shock anyone? No, it’s the tiny pair of arms grafted onto her waist that draw stares anyplace but her home on Haight Street._

_Banya assures me the arms were grown from stem cells. Her look is meant to “renew a spirit of open affection, like the outstretched arms of a toddler expecting a hug.” But those tiny arms don’t have the nerves to reach out. They hang a bit slack from Banya’s tight, teenaged waist._

_A matronly shopkeeper confides, “I don’t know how her mama could let her. It’s like child pornography, those little hands brushing her hips and whatever.”_

_Banya’s parents refused to comment, but parenting author Michelle Merkin says, “It’s hard for parents these days, especially if teens come home with an illegal graft. Removing the graft leaves scar tissue and isn’t covered by government medical. It can take months to get a private practice appointment, and if the kids have the cash, they can get new grafts the next day. The illegal work can be dangerous too, not just infections, but nerve damage, internal bleeding, a few kids have died. Parents might consent to reputable tissue grafting rather than risk their teens visiting some hack.”_

_Reputable tissue grafting? Many cosmetic surgeons won’t graft nonstandard body parts. In a recent survey of private Bay Area practitioners, most would graft ear points or extra lobes, but only five percent said they would add extra limbs if a patient requested it. One office I called said, “It’s not that we’re passing judgement on anyone, but our insurance just won’t cover it. Our hands are tied.”_

_Insurance also raises the price tag. Adding a second ear lobe can cost up to five figures at the posher places. On the street, I heard offers as low as $100 a lobe, although I couldn’t find any satisfied clients to interview. What about something more exotic, like Banya’s extra arms? She refused to tell, but hinted they cost at least $100,000. Sources close to superstar Skykitten say she paid over a million for her eagle wings last summer, and those were eventually removed for orthopedic reasons._

_Why do teens and their idols do it? Why graft on arms that can’t move, eyes that can’t see, ear cartilage that doesn’t even pretend to a purpose? It’s fashion. It was impossible; now it’s expensive, and the shock value is immense. Adolescents’ desire to be different may never change, but sometime soon, we may not recognize them._

 

 

Before history class on Friday, Rustle searched cosmetic surgery news to learn about Katrina’s eyes. He couldn’t find any mention, and guessed they might be custom. Their taut lines haunted him, attracting and repelling, tantalizing.

In class, he finally spotted Katrina. She was wearing a black, long-sleeved, sheer overshirt covering a tube top that looked like a chest-sized rubber band. From a side view halfway across the auditorium, it was hard to tell if the effect was flattering, but his mind added a black halo around her nonetheless. The only thing that kept him taking notes was the hope he’d be invited to another study party.

When class let out he managed to shift over and up several aisles to end up just beside her in the herd of exiting students.

“Hi, Katrina.”

“Oh, Rustle, I was looking for you.” As they stepped through the door she pulled him sideways by the arm and whispered, “Wanna get dinner together before the study party?”

“Sure, when’s that?”

“Tonight, didn’t you get the message?”

He reflexively pulled out his phone to check. “No.”

“But Rob-O—Oh!” She giggled as if it was cute that Rob-O hadn’t invited him. A shadowy blackness vibrated with her laughter. “Come on, let’s get pizza.”

Still holding his arm, she led him up the pedestrian overpass to the other side of the highway, the non-school part of town. Rustle had barely explored there and had no idea where a pizza place might be. Katrina brought him up short in front of a hole-in-the-wall, or actually two holes. The top one was just large enough to make the face behind look perfectly oval, as if a pretty blond woman stood just inside, looking out through an opening larger than her face but hiding the full volume of her curly blond hair. What gave her away was how she stayed perfectly centered in the oval.

The hologram asked, “What would you like?” Her voice was recorded and dull, but a little purple at the edges.

“Pizza for two,” Katrina answered.

“Dietary restrictions?”

“Nope.”

“Ten seventy-five, please.”

Katrina passed her phone in the lower hole, heard it beep, and tucked it back into a pouch at her waist before Rustle said, “You don’t have to pay.”

Katrina looked at him, eyes wide, eyelashes unnaturally thick. “You can buy soda for the party.”

Another beep announced the extrusion of two foil-wrapped bundles through the lower hole onto a platform. Katrina snapped them up and handed one to Rustle.

“Thanks.”

“Let’s eat up there,” she said, already several steps away and heading onto the overpass.

At the top it was windy, but most of the vehicles passing below were quiet, electric or some kind of hybrid, so it wasn’t so different from a bridge above a river. Rustle felt the view as pink and uncertain, then told himself he shouldn’t feel a view, then told himself it was just an emotional reaction and the color merely an associated response.

He copied Katrina in peeling back enough foil to eat one end of the pizza. From the outside, it looked more like a perogi, but inside it was a wet mess of pizza sauce, and Rustle nibbled carefully. Katrina didn’t speak, just watched the cars below.

Finally, when Rustle was two-thirds through his pizza, he encountered a thick mass of cheese, peppers, mushrooms, and at least two meats.

By then, Katrina had finished and was licking her fingers. “Listen.”

Rustle didn’t hear anything unexpected, but he let Katrina lead him, by a tug on the arm, back down onto campus and past the H-shaped building with its melodic glass walkway, until he realized there was real music playing.

They followed the sound to a courtyard outside the library where a live DJ on a makeshift platform was running the boards and a few dozen students were already dancing beneath a banner that read “Genetic Diversity = Survival.”

A group of scarlet-robed neo-Krishnas danced by them, giving Katrina a flower and not even waiting for a donation.

“Let’s dance,” Katrina said, and holding her flower above her head began to undulate attractively mere centimeters in front of Rustle. From this angle, her rubber band tube top resembled the top of a corset, and Rustle decided it looked good, even as he did his best to find a style of dance that matched the jangly music and his partner.

At home, dance was meant to be experienced individually, following all one’s senses wherever they might lead. But he and the other kids saw enough ads to know outsiders danced to look attractive to each other, and they’d tried it out a few times. Still, he felt better when Katrina looped a hand around his neck and used the other to tuck her flower behind his ear. He tried a side to side rocking of his shoulders that rubbed her wrist against his neck and she smiled and wiggled her hips back at him.

Still wiggling her hips she let go for a moment to pull a round lip gloss from her waist pouch. After coating her lips until they were generously shining she pulled him close, running a still slippery finger from below his ear down to his Adam’s apple; then she pulled him in for a kiss.

After that, dancing was easier. Rustle found he could dance to be attractive, and still follow feedback from his mind. The music was fast, but he felt something slower wrap around Katrina and him, and she seemed to know and danced slower with him. Her skin was soft when he dared to place a hand under her translucent overshirt, on the bare skin between rubber band and latex pants. But he also smelled her skin like salt and vinegar, and each time they kissed, blackness fogged his head.

Encircling her hair and face he saw a sort of sparkle that left an even deeper blackness in its wake. Somewhere in the dancing it had grown dark and their bodies were pressed against each other, smelling like sweat. The DJ glowed with the lights from his boards, but the oval was only lit by campus stored-sun-lights, enough to provide security when the grounds were mostly empty. There were more than two hundred people dancing now, and many of them were shadows in the crowd.

“You like it?” Katrina murmured, mouth just below his.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“It’s called ‘Tasty III.’”

Somewhere in the middle of the next kiss Rustle figured out her lip gloss was a drug. The warmth of her mouth was offset by the feel of ice on his back, but she kept the kiss going until he could hear the ice melt and fall back into his mind.

“My mind can be a trip without drugs,” he said.

“That’s fine, if you like vacationing alone.”

“And the memory drug last time only enhanced memories of you.”

“I’m flattered, but you can choose to pay attention to history, or me, or both.”

He stood still, looking at her, both his palms still comfortably around her midriff.

She reached down for her lip gloss and dipped another finger. “Well?” She half-pouted, half-puckered as she dabbed some to her lips.

He smelled the salty vinegar of her voice and his mouth watered. “Sure.”

This time, her finger traced, cool and controlled, along his lips before they kissed.

By the time a neo-Krishna took him by one hand and Katrina by the other, Rustle was ready to come up for air, but not to let go of her. The scarlet-robed one danced with them in a three-person loop until a hand-holding chain passed by. Then Katrina was attached at the back of the chain and Rustle found himself pulled along with her. Soon someone was holding his other hand, and they were all moving vaguely forward to a music that somehow now included tambourines.

They danced long enough for Rustle to feel the beat of the tambourines in the bounce of his step, and then long enough again that he wasn’t so bouncy. He found himself sitting with Katrina and others as a scarlet-robed guy told them his name was Brother Lysine. He promised an even better genetic diversity dance if someone would help them find a decent power source and some speakers.

Katrina wrapped both her hands around one of his and said, “Rustle knows all about that stuff.”

Rustle said, “Well, I know speakers and cables. I guess I could help set things up.”

“And a power source?” the Krishna man asked.

Rustle drew a blank, then said, “The steam tunnels under here have lights, so there must be power, if you had someone who knew how to get in and hook up.”

In a few minutes the Krishna had his phone number and his promise to bring speakers and cables. Then Katrina was leading him away.

“We’ll be late for the study party, and we still have to pick up soda.”

Rustle shook his head wondering how it could be barely nine, as his phone assured him it was. There was also a message from his dad, which shocked him, but he didn’t bother reading it yet. Katrina paused to kiss him again, and he wasn’t even sure if the drug was still there, but he didn’t care whether they danced or studied so long as she was with him.

 

When they reached Chomsky common room, the rest of the study group was already reviewing. Rob-O was wearing something like a chain-mail stocking cap that draped from the top of his head, down over his face and hair to the base of his neck. As he rolled his eyes at their late arrival, Rustle imagined him a knight, helm melted and stretched below his chin, as he displayed disdain to impress his lady.

Katrina just held up the bag she and Rustle carried between them and said, “Look, Rustle brought the sodas!”

As they squeezed in on the sofa, she handed Rustle the Mem-u-solve pills and whispered near his ear, “Remember, if you want them to help you with history, you’ll have to concentrate on the study notes.”

Her breath on his ear did nothing to help his focus, but he dry swallowed his pills as she did hers. He pulled out his phone with notes as she turned to Rob-O on her other side.

“Your turn to wear the monitor?”

“How’d you guess? I’m recording the effects of Mem-u-solve on my ignorant undergrad brain.”

“That all you’ve got in your brain?”

Rustle saw her hand on Rob-O’s thigh as she stage-whispered into his ear right through that metal mesh.

Rob-O replied, “You want to provide other data for the research? Be careful, I’m bugged, audio and visual.”

“The whole time?”

“They insist on it.”

“Bet that cuts down on their data.”

“Not as much as you’d think. It’s only human spectrum visual, so in the dark—”

“Could we get on with history?” It was the loud guy in the infi-just chair talking as he opened a soda and slurped up some foam. “I don’t really want to memorize just what you two will do for science.”

Rustle was glad his memory was only ramping up. The group started its round of note reading again, and Rustle felt a playful wiggle and bump of the bottom from Katrina. He looked up to see a quick shrug of eyebrows over her tightly drawn eyes. That was all it took to start him swimming in her black shimmer again. He made a game of trying to concentrate on history, but she’d lean over to grab a soda or adjust how far back she was sitting, and his mind would dive deep into the sea foam of her voice or the darkness of her hair. By force of will, he’d grind his attention back to what they were reading, only to feel her nail brush his knee, sending chills up his thigh.

At the end of the study session, he hung around, hoping to say something clever, and wondering if Katrina had plans for the rest of the evening. From the moment they pushed off the sofa, Katrina kept one hand on Rob-O, and Rustle’s vision of the brain monitor whatever-it-was distorted it into a lime green brain-sucking pancake.

“How long do you wear that thing?” Rustle asked.

“Twenty-four hours.”

“For a class?” He kept it short, playing it safe.

“Kind of. For Neurosci 101 I’m supposed to participate in five experiments. If I wear the hat for twenty-four hours after class, I get credit for four of those, and I can use my own data as part of my final paper. For the fifth experiment credit, I meet with the grad student researchers to answer questions about my time in the hat.”

“You have to tell them everything?” Rustle tried to make it sound like smooth innuendo that might impress Katrina, but she was staring into the fire and didn’t seem to hear.

“They’re only grad students.”

As Rob-O pulled Katrina away with a familiar tug, Rustle conceded defeat and said goodnight. Heading up the stairs to his room, he thought about history enough to confirm his brain had recorded something. Then he thought about Katrina leaning across him to grab a soda, and was glad he’d been able to split his attention.

He brought up the message from his dad, his first communication since Rustle left home. With not a word to spare it read, “Is your mom there?”

Rustle looked over his shoulder and around the hall in animal panic. Moms weren’t supposed to visit kids at college, were they? He hadn’t noticed any others. A wash of gray eased him back to reality. Maybe it was best Katrina was elsewhere tonight. As soon as he shut the door to his room Rustle texted his dad: “No, why? What’s happening?”

To his mom he typed more slowly, “Do you float on good tides? Is there an orange time to plan?”

Then he cleaned up his room, just in case.

 

##  **Chapter 7**

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                        _9/27/72_

_Postulate: Let S be the set of all primes. Assume S is finite with order N._

_S = (P1, P2, P3 … PN)_

_Multiply the primes to create their product K._

_K = P1 x P2 x P3 … x PN_

_K is divisible by all the primes, therefore M = K+1 is not divisible by any of them._

_Therefore, either M is a new prime or it factors into other primes not in the finite set._

_This contradicts the postulate. Therefore, the order of the set of primes is infinite._

_Proof by Contradiction._

 

 

On Tuesday, there was so much shouting in the main quad that Rustle’s math prof, a stocky man with a frizz of gray hair, gave up lecturing and merely wrote proof after proof on the comp-board. Then the old man stomped out in disgust half an hour early, as Rustle tried to feed the proofs he’d copied into the search function on his phone. The few valid matches he found didn’t help very much.

He rose from his seat, confused by the math, the noise, and a parade of savory fragrances set loose amongst his thoughts. He emerged into dazzling sunlight and a burst of full-force noise. The quad was packed, at least a thousand people, more than he’d ever seen in one place, even here. But the ones right in front of him didn’t look like students. They were all typing onto real or virtual keyboards or dictating inaudibly into non-obvious microphones. One wore a pin on his bulky jacket that said “blog.blog.blog” and Rustle guessed he’d found a flock of self-appointed news-bloggers who’d flown in for the excitement.

A little further on, he dodged a neo-Krishna line dance as it wove past a TV van with a dish antenna on top. The TV people were absent, presumably somewhere down the steps in the main square. Rustle watched the packed bodies below and decided that very few of them looked like students. Above their heads rose signs like:

            Diversify or Die

            Public School for All

            Genotypical: The Fuck Stops Here

Shouting voices stomped through his thoughts, and Rustle decided he’d rather watch events from the top of the H-building. He made his way to the staircase he’d used that first day. The rising windows offered broader and broader views, first smelling of cayenne, then later of nutmeg, not at all like the first day. If he was fully synesthetic, there should be consistency in more than just his mood colors. But if he wasn’t really synesthetic, would his mood colors be so consistent? A pinkish-violet fell like mist on his face, his usual feelings of uncertainty and confusion.

As he continued up, the people grew smaller, and Rustle’s relaxed.

The door to the roof was closed and locked. Without even thinking, he pulled his phone and dialed Marie.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Marie, it’s Rustle. You seen what’s happening in the quad?”

“No, oh, the flash mob?”

“Yeah, I was gonna watch it from the roof again, but the door’s locked.”

“And you were hoping I’d come unlock it?”

“Well, I thought you might want to see this too.”

“Yeah, have key will travel.”

She cut out, and Rustle watched the mass below shade brown and squirm like worms on his palms. He pressed his palms against the thick window glass to impress its cool smoothness, but it vibrated with the noise outside. Someone had taken up a megaphone and was leading a call and response.

“What do we want?”

“Genetic freedom!”

“When do we want it?”

“Now!”

His mind clouded with familiarity before he consciously heard steps below, steps that were in fact Marie, who unlocked the door to the roof and let him out into the full noise and heat of the day.

They stood together at the half-wall, silently staring down for long minutes before Marie asked, “What do they think of this stuff where you come from?”

Rustle realized he hadn’t heard back from either parent since the odd message Friday. He’d mostly stopped looking over his shoulder, and he didn’t feel like mentioning any of that to Marie. “Not our style, mostly. Of course, some of us would like free school and medical care, but if you believe synesthesia’s an innate human potential, something all babies have to whatever extent, with nature and nurture affecting the neural pruning, well—I think most of my intunity would send their kids to our type of school anyway, and they’d rather see doctors who understand them, so, I dunno.”

“And you?”

“I came here because I was sick of home, but I might be sick of the rest, soon.”

Marie nodded. Her hair was down again, tucked behind her ears. She wore jeans and a red tee shirt that wasn’t tucked in. Her eyes looked kind of puffy and greasy. She said, “Isn’t that what college is for? Getting away from the trouble we’d cause at home?”

“I wasn’t causing trouble. They troubled me.”

“You never caused trouble?” Marie lowered her chin and looked out from below her eyebrows, like a mother implying that all teenagers cause trouble. “If there’s trouble for you, how can you say you didn’t cause it? Maybe just your existence, the ways you interact, creates the difficulties you sense. What they’re protesting below is the limiting of the whole human genome. Each of our own little troubles is just a microcosmic example of different neurotypes struggling to interact.”

Rustle shook his head. “Do all your people think like that?”

“By definition, we all think many different ways. But you talked about education. In my intunity, as soon as a child uses the pronoun ‘I’ someone tells her it means ‘my current representational schema.’”

“Your what?”

“Who am ‘I’? If I lose a leg and my brain keeps feeling phantom pain, am I my body or what I feel? If someone shows me a recording of how gracelessly I danced at my first recital, am I the girl who clomped around or the elegant ballerina I saw in my five-year-old mind? Or am I the cute little girl others reminded me about as I grew older? If the usual ‘I’ is a misassumption most people make, am ‘I’ miscommunicating every time ‘I’ use the word?”

“Wow, I’ll have to remember that the next time I feel freakish.”

“Sure, your ‘I’ just comes with its own pocket reality.”

“It’s more like a metaphor.”

“That’s a simile.”

He laughed, but she turned her face back to events below, eyes still sad and lined.

“Is something wrong?”

“No more than usual, I’m just getting over something.”

“I’m sure the med center has something that could help.”

“I don’t do that.”

He realized how careless his comment had been. “Oh. What do you do?”

What I’m getting over is mostly emotional. With my kind of emotional range, I mostly cope. I told you my genome responds well to other methods. It’s a constant process of trying to learn from experiences with my own schemas and others the best ways to steer my associations and choices.”

“Does it work?”

“I can churn through some pretty mind-numbing work when I’m feeling down. I come up with a lot of ideas when I’m a bit manic. And between times I evaluate and build schemas to handle myself in the other states, to prevent each part of myself from doing things I’ll feel bad about later. I memorize what I care about, like the freedoms they’re protesting for below. So being someplace close to depressed, well, I can’t explain it, but if I was never there, I’d lose too much of who I’ve chosen to be, in the experience of my full emotional range.”

“You don’t sound happy about it.”

“Of course not; we’re talking about a very negative emotional state.” She leaned forward again, and he wanted to tell her how she tasted like exotic tea, but he didn’t know what words to use before she continued. “It’s not as bad as when I was younger. And there are ways to reset, extreme or not, if it lasts too long.”

For a moment she looked truly despondent, eyes down, cheeks and mouth drooping. Then a yellow glow infused her expression, making her facial muscles look energized, if a little bit jaundiced. “I can sort of moderate it, call up a bit of mania as needed, use the motivation while it lasts, and hope I’m happy with the decision later.”

“How long does each state last?”

“A few months, a year. This one’s been almost a year, but I can tell it’s dissipating. I set myself up for it, aside from the timing issue, with the friendship I told you about before. Remember, I told you on this very roof that I was escaping a connection like unbreakable rope? I knew she wasn’t the sort of person to truly believe in me, in anyone. But I’d had a bad run-in with the science fair ethics board. Killed my project. Stacy totally sympathized with me on the science, but she wasn’t one of us with high emotional range or the strong parvocellular tendency to ‘big picture’ thinking, or other parts that make a real empathic people-person. I knew she couldn’t be a real friend to someone like me.”

“How did you know? You sound like you studied her genetics.”

“I’m good at guessing people’s brain structures or connectivity. Call it folk psychology, holistic thinking, intuition. I did my second year science project on it after studying GSR—that’s galvanic skin response—to faces when I was really little. There’s a lot more to individual brain function than the constraints placed by genetics. However, where I live, we all have access to our whole intunity’s genomes as well as standard databases, as a necessary educational tool. We do a lot of genetic research. And genomics, that may be one of the applications we’re best at. A lot of the old laws were based on looking at single genes, to the extent ‘gene’ is even a meaningful term. But lots of the important effects involve the dynamic interactions of multiple sequences, protein structures, protein expression, and environmental factors. On top of that, there are epigenetic markers like acetyl groups that can make a section of DNA more available for expression and moving genetics like transposons and retrotransposons that can mix things up to good or bad effect. What people thought they understood last century turned out to be a tiny part of something too complicated for any computer we’ve designed thus far. Still, some minds are better at using the computers to make sense of all that data. I got far enough with my science fair projects to get into trouble. My mother spent my whole childhood contracting for the government on something she couldn’t describe with any more detail than ‘genomics,’ and even she freaked out at some of what I got into.”

Marie was making almost no sense again, but there was warm darkness building in Rustle as she spoke. Rustle didn’t want to run away from her. “You’re saying they use non-typs to do government genetics research?”

“Genetics and genomics. Our brains are good at discovery; besides, there’s probably under the table stuff to delist us, aside from the lawsuit.”

“Your intunity and mine have got to be complete opposites.”

“No, that’s the whole point of intunities, the desire to live their own way. What about the deaf ones that started up first? You’ll notice they didn’t even send representatives to Hershenstein. None of them even claim their genetics are advantageous. They’re just glad that chance cut them off from the wider society and let them develop their own ‘better’ culture—the first intunity. They won’t argue to be delisted or consider lucrative government contracts; they want to be left alone.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s more different.”

“It led to both our homes.”

Marie shivered and Rustle pictured vivid green prickles poking in around her. She jumped up on the vent she’d favored last time, standing, not sitting, now, and waved for him to join her.

He clambered up and stood, a rush of red almost knocking him down. The vent was far enough from the edge that even if he fell he wouldn’t go over the wall, a little less than a meter down to the gravelly flat roof.

“Look at them,” she pointed. “One stupid bunch of monkeys limits brain diversity before they understand brain function. What if they needed that diversity to understand it? What if they banned all the types below who’d question the ban?”

“You think that questioning’s genetic?”

“What if a significant part of it was? There’s good evidence one of the dopamine variants they banned because of mood disorders may also allow more items to be consciously manipulated, meaning they’re available for near global brain access. But we didn’t know that until twenty years later. Those people didn’t even form their own intunity, but some of them were preserved with our divergent thinkers and some in one of the epileptic spiritualist intunities. They’re building their legal case now.”

“No offense, but don’t your people scare outsiders with the way they talk?”

“Am I that bad? So bad there shouldn’t be any more like me?”

Her voice sent tendrils into his brain, weird purple tendrils that made him think she’d jump if he gave the wrong answer. Instead, he felt a spherical blackness surround them, conferring a moment of understanding. Was this his hallucinatory version of her folk-psychology?

“Nothing like that: it’s not your job to play the diplomat. Could you help me with my math?” Rustle asked.

He had no idea why or how that had been the right thing to say, but the greasy tiredness seemed to ease from Marie’s eyelids as he sat down beside her on the air duct to review his paper notes. He hadn’t been able to take it all down fast enough on his phone.

“Our prof couldn’t talk over the demonstrators’ noise, so he wrote all this stuff on the board without any explanation.”

It took both of them holding the paper to keep the corners flat and prevent the sheets from blowing away with the gusty rooftop winds.

“This is a classic: multiply, add one, you lose.”

“What?”

“A proof of why there can’t be a largest prime. Let’s go someplace less windy, and I’ll talk you through it.”

 

They ended up in Rustle’s room. Marie picked up the Barbie toy first thing. It emitted a series of tones and trills.

“R2D2?” Marie smiled, and Rustle was relieved. He’d imagined bringing Katrina back here and been rather embarrassed about his décor as well as his tiny bed covered in school-issued linens. But with Marie it seemed like anything would be okay. She was working her way through his toys trying to check all their different sounds. When she reached the R2D2, he confidently handed her a screwdriver. She rotated the toy until she found the logical spot then smiled as it said, “Cuckoo.”

“You did this?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“It shows you’re not afraid to set out toys for everyone to see, and you’ve got enough determination to change things if you want to. That’s exactly what I expected of your room.”

Rustle didn’t know what he’d expect of Marie’s room, but he suddenly wanted to see it, to see what it would show him about her.

“How’s this work?” she asked, picking up a squat, ceramic cylinder that resembled a large salt shaker.

“Oh, it doesn’t make sounds. That’s a homemade aromatherapy diffuser, for releasing scents.”

“Do you cross-wire scents between items, too?”

“No.” He switched the machine on; it was currently filled with a sweet cardamom combination he found relaxing. “I mostly do simulation voices. I like them best if they sound just short of real, so you know it’s not a recording. Here, talk to the mobile.”

He tapped a weight on the bottom of the mobile that hung over his bed. Early planes, gliders, and zeppelins began to fly around in circles.

Marie tentatively said, “Hello, mobile?”

“Over, over, you’re breaking up,” came a tenor voice covered in pseudo radio static.

“Where’s the speaker and receiver?” Marie asked.

“Who said that?” came a suspicious German baritone. “Identify yourself at once.”

“It’s old miniaturization, inside the planes and strings,” Rustle said.

“World War Two flying ace on the way,” said Snoopy.

Marie smiled but stood by silently, so Rustle tapped the weight to shut it down.

“Shall we look at math?” Marie asked.

Rustle spread his notes on the desk, but he wasn’t really interested in that anymore. At first he stood beside Marie, both of them in the narrow walkway between the desk chair and the bed.

“You can sit down,” she said.

“No, I’d feel weird. Maybe we could sit on the bed?”

Marie shrugged, and Rustle grabbed his two pages of notes and sat with his legs out and his back to the wall. Marie had no real choice but to sit beside him. She seemed a little tentative, but Rustle was much more comfortable.

“So, what’s going on in this proof?” he asked.

Marie went right into it, and Rustle felt teal and clever; even if he didn’t understand everything she said, at least he was guessing what to say to her.

By the time they reached the last proof, Marie had convinced him she could teach better than his math prof. He understood more about math in general than he ever had, and she’d even corrected two mistakes in his notes. At some point he’d bent his legs to make a sloped surface for the pages in front of them. Now Marie ran a finger under an equation, and he felt the touch like a ray gun burning through to his leg on the other side. He slid a hand onto her thigh and asked, “Are you this good at everything?”

She blushed, and Rustle wished he had some of Katrina’s lip gloss to stealthily run along shallow arteries. But he knew Marie wouldn’t like that. She didn’t want to experiment with drugs.

He tried to kiss her. She pulled back, scattering a spray of black he hadn’t previously noticed. The spices he smelled had nothing to do with the cardamom in the room.

“It’s okay,” he said.

“It’s not. You don’t know,” she said.

“I feel like I know you better than I can explain. Give me a chance?”

She took an unsteady breath and pulled her elbows into her sides, but the black pulsed back around them, and Rustle was sure she wanted him to continue. He leaned forward, kissing her again, and this time she let him, seeming curiously young, when moments ago she’d seemed so worldly. He slid a hand under her untucked tee shirt, finding the fact she wasn’t dressed up, the fact her figure was loosely shrouded, strangely enticing. She stiffened, but she wasn’t fighting him, and he eased her onto her back, supporting himself above her, trying to go slow, trying to be gentle, as he realized how charged his body was after just a couple weeks at this bizarre school.

He slid a hand across her breast and said, “Where I live sensuality and sexuality are something we’re encouraged to experience fully, letting our senses take us where they will.”

Her nipple was hard under his fingers, but she seemed too still, like she didn’t know how to move. He ran a hand along her face, down her neck, over her clothes, down to her thigh. She gasped like it felt good, but closed her eyes tight, like she was afraid. He lay down next to her, breathing gently into her ear, stroking gently under her shirt. His mind was full with her scent of bastilla and a shimmering black sensation he wanted to hold onto. He wanted to undo Marie’s pants, but something told him to wait, to hold out as long as he could, even though he was sure she wanted him, too.

And then she was up, and out of his reach, and out the door, and Rustle rolled onto his front in the space where she’d been, almost feeling too much as he pressed against the bed. What had he done wrong? What could he do now? The black satin of the moment turned brown as burlap clotted with mud. The cardamom smell in the room seemed wrong, and remembering it was real, his cross-sensory impressions faded and his breathing and desire ebbed. When he’d calmed down enough to sit and turn off the aromatherapy device, he reached for his phone.

“Hi,” Marie squeaked on the other end. She’d known who it was and at least she’d picked up.

“I’m sorry. Maybe I misunderstood. Can we get together and talk?”

“Later, okay?”

“Please, I don’t want you to—”

“Later, really, I’ll call you,” and she hung up.

Rustle sat staring at the crumpled math notes on his bed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Chapter 8**

 

_San Francisco Chronicle                     Friday, Sept. 30, 2072_

_Protestors Arrested Outside UN Medical Rights Summit_

_By Jordan Walsh, Chronicle Staff Writer_

_Three protestors were arrested today for violating the floating free speech zone around a San Francisco summit of the UN Medical Rights Subcommittee. One detainee dressed in the scarlet robes of the neo-Krishnas was heard to say, “I was only giving our visitors a flower.”_

_While no public statement was issued on the subject, it is widely believed that Euro-Asian Union representatives at the summit hoped to persuade their US counterparts to provide basic health care to all citizens, even the non-genotypical. Protestors within the free speech zone waved signs such as “Prevent Prevention Management” and “Love Thy Neighbor as Thyself.” The three people arrested had approached a departing French delegation and tried to hand them a flower, a children’s book, and a basket of fruit._

_There have been protests nationwide this week as the Federal Health Agency is preparing to release refined guidelines for prevention management. While researchers from the Hooper Institute state that “Refinements are needed to keep policy in line with scientific understanding,” a published statement from the Genetic Freedom Institute argues, “So called ‘refinements’ correct only the banned sequences now shown to confer some advantage. No nonlethal segment of the genome should be banned until we understand the entire system of genetic interactions.”_

_Protestors in Washington DC unveiled a 30-meter “wellness quilt” in front of the Lincoln Memorial. In New York City, a white dust released outside Brooklyn General Hospital caused officials to block access and close the street until the powder was confirmed to be confectioners’ sugar. Two activists have been arrested in connection with the New York incident._

 

 

By Friday, protests were a regular part of campus life and the outside news as well. Math had moved to a quieter building, and neither Marie nor Katrina had called. The only communication Rustle had received all week was a brief note from his mom, “Walkabout warm blue memories,” with a photo of a sea lion attached. A couple of hours before history, Rustle’s phone rang. He didn’t immediately recognize the caller, a Lester Cromwell, though his phone did. When the picture came up, bald and scarlet-robed, Rustle figured it out. He answered anyway.

“Hi, Brother Lysine.”

“Hi, Rustle. I trust you are ready for our great dance tonight?”

“Sure, I guess so.”

“We will see you behind the student center at five. You will bring the speakers and cables.”

Lysine’s uninflected calm blew gray smoke from the phone, but Rustle had to say, “Maybe 5:15, I have a test that ends at five.”

“So be it. Until then.”

Rustle hung up but couldn’t go back to studying. The gray smoke lingering from Brother Lysine’s voice was turning brown, and Rustle opened his window, even as he told himself to ignore these sensory intrusions. Then he wandered out of his room, down the hall, and out the front glass doors. He sat on a concrete step in the midday sun and stared toward the garden, mind drifting in a bland swirl of colors and light.

Bill startled him by saying, “Hey, Rustle,” and sitting down next to him.

Bill must have come from behind him, otherwise Rustle thought, he hoped, he would have noticed. Rustle didn’t much feel like talking, but he felt obliged to say something. Bill flexed his six-fingered hands, and Rustle watched without reaction. A milky whiteness started to surround both himself and Bill.

“Are you ready for the history test?” Rustle asked.

“Ready enough,” Bill said. “With everything else going on, classes have sort of faded in importance.”

Rustle looked around. In front of them, there was literally nothing going on. No one even walked across the garden at that moment. No wind turned the makeshift windmill. There was music and the smell of cafeteria pseudo-meat cooking somewhere behind them. There was the ever-present hum of people talking, shouting, protesting toward the center of campus.

“You mean the protests?” Rustle asked.

Bill rolled his eyes. “Yeah. You’re pretty non-political, aren’t you?”

“I dunno. I guess it was easy to ignore back home.”

“Not where I lived. It’s amazing how fast people spot a sixth finger, and whether it made them surly or sympathetic, it always made a difference. For a couple years, I kept my hands in my pockets full time. But I still heard every derogatory comment anyone made about gene freaks.” There was a burst of fiery yellow in the way Bill used the phrase. “And of course, I read everything I could about intunites, protestors, the Genetic Freedom Institute.”

“Did you read anything about divergent thinkers?”

“Sure, they make the news a lot. It helps to be organized, and wealthy.”

“Do you think what they have is useful?”

Bill looked sideways at Rustle and drummed all his fingers on his jean-clad knees. “I mean, the pat answer is that variations in thinking are useful to a population in general. But yeah, that group has a great case, and they have the added advantage that lots of their founders were intelligent and highly skilled. They probably run the best school system in the country, and there are loads of rumors about how they get their money. Are they any better than people of equal intelligence or people who think outside the box but don’t have those exact genetics? Probably not, but who can say?”

“Huh. Is there a way to find out how many kids aren’t born because of it?”

“Well, you could look at the prevention management website, but that would only tell you how many were terminated. It’s part of how they make the numbers look low. Most people who carry banned segments use other methods ahead of time, but there’s stuff online with statistical estimates. You might not want to search from your own set-up though. There’s a pretty credible rumor that Homeland Security tracks those things.”

Rustle felt pink fault lines forming around him, and the warmth of the sun wasn’t enough to keep him outside. He stood, saying, “I should go study.”

Bill stayed seated, just tapping his fingers and watching as Rustle headed back into the dorm.

 

The history test went okay. Some of the material from last week, when Rustle had used the Mem-u-solve II and actually attended to the notes being read, came back to him with extreme clarity, allowing him to choose two of five essay questions with some confidence. While answering the second question, he did have occasional flashes of Katrina leaving with Rob-O and not him, but that was part of history too.

Tonight there was no study party, but he’d messaged Katrina just before class. He met her outside the classroom door.

“Hey, Katrina.”

“Hey.”

No kiss, but she took his hand as they walked toward Chomsky.

“You still want me to help build this stereo tower?”

“Sure, I’m ready to dance.”

He collected the speakers and equipment he’d need, and Katrina went to her room to change. Rustle packed himself a spare shirt for after the set-up.

Then he waited in front of Katrina’s room until after 5:15. It was worth it. She came out in a silver flapper dress, all tight-fitting layers of fringe that ended way above her knees. Her eyes were shadowed in silver as well, highlighting the melanin density of her skin and the inhuman tightness around her eyes. She looked stunning, and a little bit dangerous. Rustle wondered if tonight he’d be invited back to her room.

 

They were ten minutes late, but Brother Lysine bowed calmly, his hands folded together.

“Follow me.”

He led them down a service path to a shed not far from the garden. Beside it was an open manhole cover. A ladder led down but no poems covered the walls, not the same place. Nearby, two Krishnas were building a teepee structure from boards and wood pallets. It didn’t look like something Rustle would want supporting his speakers.

“Here, see if you can hook the power up to this audio box as a test.” Rustle handed Lysine the power cable and set down the box and speakers. Then he took Katrina by the hand and went to inspect the tower materials. The pieces began assembling themselves in his mind’s eye.

“You have enough here to build higher than these trees. I assume we’re trying to get sound across the garden?”

The neo-Krishnas nodded and looked to Rustle with wide-open eyes, as if waiting for instruction. Katrina looked at him that way too. The scarlet robes grew a little more plum in the shadows of the low oak tree and even the wood took on a rosy hue as Rustle studied their building materials and envisioned a tower seven meters high.

“Okay, let’s set those pallets up like an ‘X’ here and here.” He drew lines in the dirt with his foot, and the Krishnas helped him tie and nail the wood into place.

Just as the first level was secure enough for him to climb up to anchor more boards, a folk beat, like theme music for the retelling of a legend, filled in the mental gaps between instructions. Pine scented the air, though the trees around were oak, and it took Rustle a while to notice the sunset amidst all the warm colors he’d accumulated as he wired the speakers up to the top of his tower. He didn’t try to fight it.

He couldn’t quite see to the garden from his perch, but the speakers were higher, fastened up at the top of his reach, the top of his tower, and Rustle felt a warm yellow as he gazed at them. He climbed down and found that the DJ from last week had replaced Rustle’s sound box with a bulky professional model and patched a redundant cable from the tower to a mixer set up at the edge of the garden.

Music came on full blast, and Katrina, who must have been watching and waiting all that time, started bouncing in her shiny silver shoes. For a moment Rustle froze because he’d forgotten her.

“Let me wash real quick and change my shirt.”

She nodded and followed him to the student center. When he came back from washing she handed him one of the smoothies she was carrying from the snack shop. Not his favorite form of dinner, and the straw seemed sticky or greasy as he took his first sip, but what could you expect from the snack shop? At least Katrina had waited for him. Her cool fingers combed a lock of hair from his forehead. He drank up with an arm around her waist as they wandered back into the garden.

Dozens of people were already dancing and the music surrounded them as if it rebounded from the clouds. Those clouds were dark like night, even as red, orange, and brightness still spilled from the west. The stored-sun-lights lining pebbled paths clicked on in the growing dark and illuminated a few people dancing in the rock garden. Rustle steered Katrina that way as they flowed through the crowd, and by the time they’d finished the smoothies, they were swaying together on a patch of porous red pebbles.

The DJ kept the music rumbling as the sun fully set and wind began to whip Katrina’s hair around her face. Rustle relaxed, slightly teal, seeing his tower now and then over Katrina’s shoulder. He caught glimpses down her dress and was entranced by the fringe that shifted its own dance from theirs. They kissed a bit and Rustle pulled Katrina close for some of the slower songs, but mostly dancing felt plum-good, and having helped create the tower and the party felt right.

The music touched him like a furry creature, silver shimmery but chinchilla soft. Rustle shivered. Katrina ran her nails lightly down his back and he shivered some more. She pressed against him as they both let their hands explore, never stopping dancing for a moment.

Then suddenly the wind gusted and a few drops of rain landed on their arms. Rustle was guiding Katrina through the crowds toward the tower, even as their bodies still moved to the music. A hot pink wind blew food wrappers and napkins from far across the garden, and rain began to fall in force.

“Shit, the speakers,” Rustle said as the dancing freed him and he tried to move faster, feeling Katrina let go of his hand.

“I’ll meet you at the tower, okay?” He couldn’t hear her reply.

The music stopped at the end of a verse, not a song, and Rustle guessed the DJ was protecting his own equipment. Then there was a crash; the lights of dorm windows from one end of the garden, lights Rustle hadn’t even noticed before, went out, and Rustle ran full out for the tower.

Stored-sun-lights kept the paths safely visible, but that wasn’t quite enough to illuminate the jumble intersecting the roof of the shed. The tower had clearly blown over. Not much chance that the speakers at the top had survived the fall and the rain, which was now a deluge.

A bot cart wheeled up to one side, shiny with a folded rear panel, just like the one that took Rustle’s luggage on that first day. It might have been the same one.

“Please stand back,” the bot said in its sweet fluorescent voice, and Rustle felt cloudy fondness for it and the crumpled tower mess behind it, which he had never felt for a bot or a building before, only sometimes for his toys with their altered voices.

“My speakers are in that mess. I need to get them out of the rain.”

The bot answered with human normal response time, “This power shed is damaged and may be dangerous to enter. Please stand back, Rustle Andoin. You will be notified when it is safe to approach.”

It knew his voice print. Were all bots here loaded with all student voices, or was this the same one? Its reply was elegantly assembled, too, almost pleasing enough to offset the loss of his speakers.

“I guess I’ll go then, and wait to be notified.” When the bot didn’t reply, Rustle added a question: “Is that reasonable?”

“Yes. Thank you, Rustle Andoin. You will be notified.”

Rustle walked away, pleased with the robot, sorry about the speakers, disappointed with himself for not anchoring the tower better, but still glad he’d built it. He thought of Katrina as he passed through the litter-strewn gardens, mostly empty now. She hadn’t met him at the tower, maybe she hadn’t heard, or hadn’t wanted to stay out in the rain. Chomsky Hall was still dark. Would she have gone back to her room? Would she be happy or annoyed to see him now?

He made his way through halls that glowed red with emergency lights, and knocked on Katrina’s door.

“Who is it?”

“Just me, Rustle.”

She opened the door, wearing a red silk kimono that might count as a robe or as casual clothing. Her hair hung damp and heavy, but her eyelids were still silver. Rustle stepped in, closing the door behind him.

“Sorry about that. I think my speakers are wrecked.”

She blinked her eyes, silver glittering in the red of a single emergency light and the glow of one tall white candle. The room smelled vanilla. With a tilt of her head and a swoosh of hair she said, “You’re forgiven. Shall we dance?”

“There’s no power.”

“Don’t need it.” She put her arms on his shoulders and began to hum. Her humming was lower than her voice, like the lower tones from a female blues singer. Rustle looped his arms around her waist and danced to her tune.

When the power came on, she selected something similar but with actual words to the music, and they just kept dancing by candlelight.

His phone rang, and he switched it off. It rang again with an emergency tone that jangled red through Rustle’s nerves, and they both stopped dancing. He picked it up and the caller ID said “police.”

Rustle showed Katrina, then answered, “Hello.”

“Is this Rustle Andoin?”

“Yes.”

“We’d like to talk with you about some speakers you claim were yours.”

“Oh.”

“What is your current location?”

“Uh,” he opened the door to check the number on the outside, “120 Chomsky.”

“Don’t leave; we’ll be there in a minute.”

As Rustle put his phone away, Katrina whined, “You told them my room number?”

“They’re police. Didn’t I have to?”

“You could have said you’d meet them at your room.” She preened in the mirror, straightening her kimono, wiping away a smudge of lipstick.

“Sorry.”

She didn’t answer or look his way, just turned off the music and adjusted the lights to full brightness. When someone knocked at the door, she stood primly on the opposite side of the room, leaving Rustle to answer.

“Officer Korm and Officer Sherborn.” A flash of IDs, a validation signal from his phone. “You are Rustle Andoin?” one asked, as both officers stepped inside the now bright and silent room.

“Yes.”

“These are your speakers?”

The silent officer displayed a photo on his electronic notepad, semi-crushed speakers in a mess of fallen wood.

“Yes.”

“And you are Katrina Correa?”

Katrina’s silver eyelids tightened to animal slits, “Yes.”

“And both of you are affiliated with the Genetic Survival Project.”

“The what?” Katrina asked.

“Was that the group hosting the dance?” Rustle moved to take her hand, but she pulled away.

“Why don’t we sit down,” said Officer Korm, taking the desk chair.

Katrina sat on the edge of her bed and Rustle sat beside her, but left some space. The other officer just leaned against the door, holding his notepad with a record light flashing.

“Look, you’re not currently charged with anything. Just tell me how you were involved in tonight’s protest.”

Rustle noted Katrina’s icy silence and wondered if she’d spoken to police before. He hadn’t, aside from the bus hacking incident, and then he’d been a victim, not a suspect. He felt brown murk closing in as he tried to sound like a typ. “We happened across their dance last week. Brother Lysine asked if I could help put together a better sound system for a bigger dance this week. I gave him my phone number; he called today. I brought some speakers and wiring, then helped set up. We were just dancing when the weather turned bad, and I went to rescue my speakers. By the time I got there, the tower had fallen and a bot told me to stay away.”

“Did you notify anyone in the administration of your intention to use school resources or construct a tower?”

“Uh, no. I guess I thought they’d taken care of all that. I was just helping set up music.”

Rustle knew he sounded stupid, but figured that was fine if it got him off the hook. A hot pink paranoia blanketed the room. How could he have been so blind walking into this?

“What was your part in this, Ms. Correa?” the officer asked Katrina.

“I just went along with him.”

“Did you help set up the sound system?”

Katrina stretched her fingernails and gazed at their perfect silver polish. She wrinkled her nose and said, “No.”

“Mr. Andoin, do you realize your speaker tower caused considerable damage to school property? The administration could press charges as well as holding you financially responsible?"

Rustle nodded as a panicked red filled his mind. Charges? He didn’t want to end up in jail. While it hadn’t been discussed directly back home, he knew jail was a bad place for people like him.

“Don’t leave campus until this is resolved.”

The officers were leaving, and Rustle was relieved not to be going with them.

He closed the bedroom door, then leaned back against it while Katrina sat on the bed. “What a mess,” he said.

“Oh, you did fine. They won’t be back.” She was up and active again, moving her desk chair back into place, shaking her hair like a lion displaying his mane. “Too bad about the power shed and your speakers.”           

Rustle swallowed his worries in the face of Katrina’s confidence, so he ended up standing silent and still. She yawned, then came forward to give him a brief, salty kiss. He reached out, but she caught his hand midway.

“Should we get together next Friday, after class?”

“Sure,” he said, not daring to ask too much as she held the door.

He headed back to his room and checked messages. There was a text from Marie saying, “Ready to talk when you are.”

He was glad to hear from her, but couldn’t make himself type even a brief response.

There was also a “notice of damage to school property” with an invoice for parts and labor that would wipe out his spending money for the year. A paragraph at the bottom mentioned, “Students may appeal to the dean for service work to offset financial liability.” He realized it was a form letter, probably generated when bots inspected the collapsed shed. After what the police had said about the school possibly pressing charges, Rustle wasn’t eager to talk to the dean about anything. He just hoped all this cost him was his money.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

#### Chapter 9

_Far from the Tree                    Saturday, Oct. 1, 2072_

_Dance ’Til the Lights Go Out_

_By Tim Id Not, Tree Correspondent_

_Anyone know who organized the dance last night? Bot cams may show, but school authorities aren’t saying._

_Half the student body was dancing in the garden. Music was shooting in over the trees from some makeshift tower, and protest signs were blowing in the wind._

_Then the wind blew the tower over and took out power to a couple of dorms, which shouldn’t have been a problem since the residents were all out dancing. But the falling tower took out the music, too. The DJ ran off in the rain, carrying his sound equipment. Then campus security started questioning anyone still standing around._

_Security refused to comment, but they questioned two students in Chomsky Hall and several members of the Genetic Survival Project. Did anyone notice the political nature of last night’s party? Maybe it all blew away in the wind._

_For those who haven’t noticed, the Genetic Survival Project is a bunch of neo-Krishnas in scarlet robes who think we should dance, enjoy each other, and let the genes combine as they may. Sure, they have a political agenda if you want to search for it: no genetic screening, full government services for all, environmental diversity protection. But they hardly hit you over the head with it. Maybe they were hoping we’d all get cozy with our new gene freak friends after the party. No wonder security is investigating._

 

 

Rain pounded against the windows and Rustle kept waking up, opening his eyes enough to see all the little power lights that told him the electric system was fine, then trying hard to sleep. It seemed like he never did, except that he dreamed.

He dreamed a whole museum devoted to their history, the history of the genetically excluded. He dreamed a room of golden crowns and crosses, for epileptic emperors and saints who preceded the divines. Down a snaking hallway was a display of art and poetry by synesthetic artists or inspired by artists’ synesthetic intimates. An entire wall was devoted to studies in blue, and another to red. Then, through a metal locker by the restrooms, there was a secret slide-like passage that led to a basement of classified scientific developments, personal flying machines and Frankenstein monsters, from the divergent thinkers or at least some emotionally driven subgroup of theirs.

Suddenly, he shot diagonally up through the building, passing through thick walls, seeing the circuitous walk-through ramps in rapid and logical cutaway. He stood on hard ground outside. A king in a deep purple robe paraded by, down the street, flashing little children like some dirty old man on the schoolyard. One child cried out, “He’s naked under there!” but no one heard because that child wasn’t real; he wasn’t born. He wouldn’t have been genotypical.

Rustle opened his eyes abruptly, scared that he might be that boy. But now he was awake. He felt lousy, stiff, unrested, brown in the mouth. He remembered his dream museum as well. Gradually, he reconstructed the floor plans he’d seen on his flight out. He rushed for paper to draw it all before he forgot, but the world lurched sideways, and it was all Rustle could do to catch himself on the bed.

His mind spun, dizzy, like going down a drain around in circles. Taste of sugar, a giant swirled lollipop of a drain. He realized he was going to be sick and managed to grab the wastebasket, conveniently within arm’s reach because the room was so narrow. He wanted water to rinse his mouth but didn’t think he could make it to the bathroom.

Lying back on the bed, he streamed school news about last night on his phone, and watched the lights behind his eyelids. They passed from pinkish to the brown crust on toast, then a turquoise like the notes of a song he’d heard in a music box. Opening his eyes, light from the windows came striping through venetian blinds and he knew the harmony for those stripes. It was right and strong as the feel of his hand on the slide of a trombone, if he were the lead trombone in a marching band.

His phone rang and he felt toward the sound, thinking he’d been listening to the news just a moment before. His arm stretched like taffy and he lost track of it somewhere through the far wall. Perhaps that was a woodpecker pecking at it, the dark hard whorls of oak where his knuckles used to be. Or was it Jeffrey pine? He smelled vanilla, and the woodpecker was his phone that was somewhere right by his head, if only he could open his eyes and look. But he thought they must be closed, because when he saw his hand coming down to open his eye he only felt cool water splash his face, and he realized he must have a fever.

That must be why his throat was so dry, and he should pull himself to the bathroom for water. But it felt so good here, with all the senses in his mind finally on his side, or had he passed through to theirs? Had he been living on both sides of a mirror and now he’d unified on just one side? But his mouth tasted bad, so maybe he could push it away to the other side. He did and tasted pure spring water through an insectile appendage that had never been a mouth. An oval sun the color of cranberries baked his skin and hair translucent until he dissolved into marzipan dandelion seeds drifting away on the wind. For a while he felt almost orange and he gloried in it.

Sometime later he realized the wind had stopped. Sunlight glowed from the direction of his window, and he turned his head without opening his eyes. This was dully real, pleasant, but he missed the other place. His phone was ringing, and this time he did open his eyes to locate it.

It was right there, next to him, where it should be. “Hello?”

“Rustle, where have you been? I’m sick.” Katrina’s salt and vinegar had a slightly nasal whine.

“Me too. I think I was hallucinating last time the phone rang.”

“I feel awful. I want you here so bad.”

The part of Rustle that usually wanted to go to Katrina couldn’t care less at the moment. But some other leaf-green part thought it was the right thing to do. Both parts were on the real sensorium side of the mirror, but neither felt quite like he remembered himself being.

“I’ll see if I can get there,” he said, and heard a click

Then the leaf-green part sprouted hands and managed to type a text reply to Marie’s message from last night: “Glad to hear from you. Want to talk, but I’m too sick today.” The green part felt her waiting to hear back and wanted to keep some peace.

There was nothing more about liability for the shed in his messages.

Rustle made his tar-filled, feverish body let go of the phone and try to stand up, but a sudden wave of nausea caught him and he grabbed for the wastebasket. He would have heaved again, but there was nothing left. Instead, he carried the garbage can to the door and set it outside in the hall. From there he slid along the wall, cool on his face, to the bathroom where he relieved himself and spent minutes at a sink splashing his mouth and face and hair.

He realized he should comb his hair and change before going to Katrina, but he was at least a fifth of the way there now, and he wasn’t sure he’d make it if he had to go back and forward again. So he slid along the wall to an elevator that he usually couldn’t be bothered to wait for. His eyes closed as he waited, but the ding was neither too loud nor too soft and he slid around inside and pushed for the next floor up.

By the time he made it to Katrina’s door he felt the teal success of scaling a crystalline mountain. He knocked.

He knocked again and said, “It’s me, Rustle.”

“Come in,” came a soft reply.

Katrina lay flat on her back in her red kimono, arms spread out across her bed, covers kicked away in fossilized eddies and currents. Her dark skin seemed unnaturally rosy, and it had been scrubbed clean of silver eye shadow or any other decorations. Her eyelashes were vanishingly short, making the taught skin of her eyes seem almost puffy.

Rustle went to sit beside her, but found himself collapsing facedown into the softness of her bed.

“No! Don’t lie down. Take care of me.”

Feeling like he’d just run a marathon in deep sand on a sunny beach, Rustle tried to push himself up. He managed to turn his head to the side and say, “I’m sick too, but give me a moment and I’ll try.”

“You can’t be as sick as me. I’ve never been this sick. I need a cool cloth and water through a bendy straw.”

Rustle thought about this for a while as the sheet beneath his face faded from bright and cool to sooty and warm. If she had a fever, and he probably did too, a cool cloth for each of them would help. Water he wasn’t sure he could handle, though his throat felt like shredded bark. Could she? There was no chance he could acquire a bendy straw. He imagined Katrina as a small child with a mom who looked just like her, only older, bringing a cool cloth and a bendy straw. Maybe he should call someone maternal and/or well to help her. But they were in college now, and his mom had gone walkabout. Maybe Katrina should call a doctor. But she’d asked for him.

“I’ll try,” he said, and pushed himself slowly upright.

In Katrina’s room, the wall was too far to reach from the bed, so Rustle braved the gap and then resumed his great trick of sliding along the cool, grapefruit walls. He even had the presence of mind to pick up a hand towel that hung near the door.

When he reached where the bathroom was on his floor, the door was marked “women.” It made a sort of sense as he thought it through. His floor had men and a men’s room. Her floor had women and a women’s room. However, there was no way he was going downstairs to dampen the hand towel. He devised a plan. He’d knock on the bathroom door, and if someone answered, he’d ask her to wet the cloth. If no one answered, he’d just go in and do it. He couldn’t be that embarrassed by someone seeing him in the wrong bathroom when he was willing to go around sliding his face on the walls.

No one answered his knock. No one saw him enter or leave the bathroom, at least as far as he could tell. He returned to Katrina in a plum-colored haze, victorious, wet cloth, still mostly cool, in hand. He got it onto her face.

“Too wet!” she whined.

He rung out some of the water over the fragrance lamp, then placed it back on her face.

She was quiet long enough that he hoped she hadn’t smothered. But he watched for signs of breathing, saw her chest rising and falling just fine, and decided not to worry.

“Water?” she croaked. And he wanted to get it for her, but he didn’t have the strength. And it might make her throw up. And he’d have no idea at all where to get a bendy straw. Probably over the highway, someplace in town would sell them. But that was much farther away than the world on the other side of the mirror.

“Sorry, I can’t,” he said, as his eyes closed and he collapsed on the end of her bed.

He sank through peppermint as yellow rained down. He heard stars glitter, seeing the harmony for his earlier music box melody. If the two found each other he knew they’d romp around excited to reconnect. But he tasted something prickly and a hedgehog climbed out of a mitten where his mouth used to be, and it said, “Why did you want to dance?”

A Rustle in a pirate’s hat said, “She drugged me again, in the smoothie.”

“Is that why we’re sick now?” asked a female version of himself with a scaly pink hat bearing one gigantic ostrich feather.

“Don’t think so,” said the Rustle in white mime paint. “Something was changing before, in my brain, the Xtreme VI took the colors away, but this isn’t just my neurochem reacting. Katrina’s sick too, and she’s normal.”

“By some definitions,” said the pirate him.

“Things were strange with Marie, too,” said the mime.

“I don’t know why I did that,” said a Rustle in a chef’s hat.

“I meant before that,” said the mime, “before I screwed up. I thought I understood her.”

The chef glared.

“Kind of?”

An earthquake…of kick-boxers…toeing him though a clumped up roll of sheets brought him back to the realer side of the mirror.

 

“I need water.”

He had wanted to get Katrina water. Had that been part of the leafy greenness?

“Should I call a doctor?”

“Water!”

“Where’s a cup?”

“Nightstand.”

Sure enough, he had eyes he could open, and near the top of the bed was a nightstand with an empty water glass. Maybe if he didn’t mention the bendy straw he could handle this now.

He stood, and only using the bed for guidance, not support, he made it to the water glass, then back across to the door. He walked down the hall barely touching the velveteen wall. Some woman walking toward him seemed surprised by his appearance, but he managed to say, “Katrina’s sick. Could you fill this with water for me?”

And the woman brought him back a full glass, and he said “thank you” out loud, he was pretty sure. Then he made it all the way back to Katrina and set the water on her nightstand.

“Here, sit up.” He pulled some pillows over and tried to slide her up them.

“Oh, I can’t take it. What have you done to me?” She managed to wiggle herself up to mostly sitting. The cloth that he’d brought earlier she’d wadded up and thrown on the floor. Her face looked less puffy. Her eyes focused on him, fully aware and tracking.

“Do you want help with the water?”

He picked up the glass and held it in front of her. She took it and drank half of it down, rapidly. “Done.”

He looked at the half-full glass and his throat tried to climb out through his mouth to soak. “Can I drink the rest?”

“No, I might need it later.”

He put it down, ignoring his own thirst, and reached forward to touch her forehead.

“Your hands are warm,” she said in a whine.

“I think we both have fevers,” he said, not able to tell by touch, but several pieces in his mind, including the thirsty one, agreed.

“I’m having the weirdest dreams,” Katrina said, sinking back into her pillows, eyes closed. “I imagined that monk guy talking to my dad, trying to convince him to change the health laws, and my dad had been promoted to head of prevention management, but he sat there frozen, like he couldn’t even hear. It was like I was seeing the scene from his side, and the monk’s, and mine, and like it was on the news as good, and like it was on the news as ridiculous. It gives me such a headache even thinking about it. But I can’t help going back to it. I never thought about my father’s job before, and now part of me is worried that he’s an accessory to something bad. And what if someone asks him why I was dancing with protestors? Did you trick me into this?”

“You got me involved with the dances, and what does your dad—”

“I didn’t, oh, maybe I did,” Katrina whimpered, giggled, and waved a hand loosely, red sleeve flopping, without opening her eyes. “That first one was kind of fun, with the Tasty III. I just bought that as lip gloss. You didn’t mind, did you? This is so weird, I didn’t even care if you minded, and now I see the memory as me, just wanting to have fun at the time. But then—

She went silent, eyes suddenly open and looking far away, but not like she was sick, and not like she was playing games. Part of Rustle, the pirate part maybe, wanted to ask what she’d been about to say. But several green lines converged behind his eyes and said she was questioning her motives, and maybe she hadn’t done that before. The sureness that he was right sat like a lump in his throat, like a rock of evidence spit up from deep inside him. He didn’t know how he knew, but he thought he might be able to follow each green strand back, one-by-one, and then maybe he’d see a slower version of what he’d figured out.

Katrina started to cry. “I didn’t hurt you did I? You came back knowing what I’m like.”

“Yeah, I had fun. You were fine.” Rustle moved in beside her, and she clung to him and cried. He’d never held someone who was crying before. He stroked her back, trying to reassure her. But had it been okay for her to drug him? And what did she give him last night at the dance? Part of him burned to ask, but he put it with the thirsty part as thoughts on how to help Katrina clawed and yelped for his attention. She didn’t seem like the sophisticated silver temptress anymore, she seemed like a kid who maybe understood even less than he did. And it was easy to forgive bad behavior when she was hurting and sick.

“I liked seeing you want me. I liked seeing Rob-O jealous. Is that bad? But I didn’t do anything much with you. You seemed so sweet, so naive. I never knew anyone from an intunity before, and maybe I didn’t think it mattered as much, because you didn’t think right anyway. But now I feel very bad about that. Oh!”

She put her hands to her head, and shook it. “Why am I explaining this to you? I didn’t do anything other people don’t do every day. I was so happy before. Why can’t sharing what’s fun be enough for people? Where did all these doubts come from? It’s like I have someone else’s brain. There must be some drug we could take, get out of our minds until this is over. Go look in the drawer.”

She nodded toward the dresser, but Rustle wasn’t sure he wanted Katrina to escape her own mind right now. Was she learning as much as he was? “I’m not sure what would be safe right now. Do you want me to call a doctor?”

“No, I just want to feel good again.” She went from whining to several rapid blinks of her eyes. Her lower lip relaxed out a bit and her eyebrows arched up. In moments her face transformed, without make-up, to something much more like the Katrina he’d known. She reached out to touch his face with one finger, tracing around his left eye, beside his nose, and onto his lips. Her hand was slightly cooler than his face, which seemed aflame at her touch. He felt a deep black stirring inside that he hadn’t thought possible at present, and then a brown disgust at his attraction to this aspect of Katrina.

“You know, when I was a little girl, I never worried about who wanted to play with me. I could spend a whole recess just spinning around a pole. The dizziness, the sun flashing by, was all good. I want to feel good. That’s the kind of girl I am. I can make you feel it, too. I have Bliss VIII or More More Happy. Have you done More More Happy? It’s very popular in Japan, makes anything seem good or funny.” She ran her hand down his shirt, over his chest, landing just at the top of his thigh. “Wouldn’t you like to be More More Happy with me?”

She kneaded his thigh, and while his body reacted, part of him watched from outside, annoyed at being so blatantly manipulated.

“Once we’re healthy, let’s try that. But I’ll stay with you now, take care of you.” He stroked her arm, wondering if fever made touch feel as intense to her as it did to him.

“Please, Rustle.”

“I could rub your back or bring you another cool cloth,” he offered, letting his hand stroke her leg gently, still very aware of her grip near his crotch.

She seemed aware of it too. She stroked him more intimately than she ever had before and said, “Come on Rustle, I’ll take care of you. Just get me something from that drawer.”

He wanted to. He knew he could just do what she wanted before he lost this chance. But he remembered the way she’d shut the door on him that first night, after getting him all sensitized with Xtreme. Would she think that was fun if she’d been in his place? Maybe being teased was supposed to make the future more exciting. Hadn’t he liked it on some level? Couldn’t it have been fair for her to stop him there?

But what had she said about Rob-O? She liked seeing him jealous. And she’d suggested someone from an intunity didn’t matter as much. Did she even care about him? Was her dad really in prevention management, or was that just part of her dream?

Rustle wondered how Katrina would treat him if he wasn’t from an intunity. Surely she hadn’t known that first night at the study party. He pictured later events branching in more and more directions. In some, she focused on him more because he was normal and he mattered. In others, she didn’t even call him to wire her electronics, because he wasn’t interesting.

Then lists appeared in his head showing all his synesthetic speech patterns, the preachy ramblings of Bob across the hall, and Katrina’s seductive patter. He added the descriptive precision of his history professor and several enigmatic asides from math lectures. Each person, typ or not, spoke a personal language and he saw how he could borrow from each one, but that wasn’t the point. His language connected to everything he was: physical posture, mental maps, past experience. He could see a million connections he’d never noticed before.

Was this what Katrina wanted drugs to stop in her own mind? But wasn’t changed experience the point of drugs? No, Katrina said she did drugs, and most things, to feel good. The alternatives in his mind spread and shifted to allow for her point of view.

Through all these thoughts, Katrina had been fondling his thigh. Among other reactions, it was pleasurable; perhaps he should return the favor and try her new drug. But what if it was dangerous while they were sick? And what if she was using him, didn’t he want to get out now?

“You do know how to make me feel good,” he admitted, even as something in him said she would never follow through. “I kind of want to experience what my mind is doing now, and I think it’s safer without adding drugs.” He heard the words as if one part of him was speaking, perhaps learning from the way Marie chose her words, but the rest of him was too busy thinking to care. “I’ll get you something if you want, but for me, I’d just like to know where I stand with you. You could tell me. Or if you want to do Bliss, I’ll help you have a good trip, but you know people tend to tell the truth when they’re on it.”

Katrina’s hand on his thigh froze. For Katrina, it was a total loss of control, he was sure, but she smiled, her lower lip twitching while she thought. Then she stroked him lightly again. “I don’t know what I think anymore, and if I’m the only one drugged, won’t you have an unfair advantage? But I’d do anything for even Bliss right now. Just bring me the little red box from that drawer?”

She was still giving him that controlling look. He went to get the red box, using his body to obstruct her view as he opened the drawer. He peeked in the only red box he saw. There were two different containers of Bliss, one concentrated, one with a dropper, probably for the fragrance lamp. There were seven other containers, and one had an oily smear around the lid, that probably would have dried if it wasn’t recent. It was labeled Mellow I.

His mind reorganized quickly as he walked back toward the bed. Hadn’t he heard something about Mellow before he left home? It was some new party drug that kept people from getting bored, made them like whatever was currently happening around them. There were jokes about women using it to make men appreciate dancing, and it also lessened men’s sexual arousal, so it was ideal as a safe-date drug. There were even jokes saying it wouldn’t have any sequels because guys would hate that feature.

Hadn’t Rustle been less interested that way last night than he usually was with Katrina? Had she wanted that? Was his intunity background making him misread signals and push too hard with Katrina as he had with Marie? But most of his memories seemed to twist the other way. Katrina repeatedly came on to him, like a game where she chose the speed and when they’d stop. Had she dosed him with Mellow because she just wanted to dance or because she didn’t want to work so hard to control him? Why had she asked for the whole red box after his last suggestions?

Rustle assembled what had proved to be a puzzle and decided that not only had Katrina dosed him with Mellow last night, but she was going to try it again now. Then he’d be content with whatever she wanted to do and he probably wouldn’t pursue too many questions so she could safely take whatever. He didn’t want it to be true, and he didn’t know if all his assumptions were sound, but as he brought the box over to her bed he promised himself he’d notice whatever she tried.

She started by kissing him, to thank him for bringing the box. It was a long kiss and he couldn’t see what she was doing, but only her left hand was on him. As she brought the right one up near his neck, he pulled back and managed to catch her wrist. Her index finger glistened oily wet.

“What’s that?” he asked.

For a moment her arm tensed and he thought she’d ram the finger into his windpipe, or maybe he just imagined that. She said perfectly calmly, “It’s just a little Mellow, to keep you from taking advantage of me while I’m on Bliss.”

“I told you I didn’t want to mess with stuff while I’m sick. And if you told me not to do anything, even after the way you flirted at me to get that box, you could trust me.”

“Sure, and you probably even believe that.” As she said it, her smile tightened, becoming taut like her eyes. “Look, you’re a nice, naive guy from an intunity, so I’ll spell it out. I don’t think I could ever trust you that way. You want the truth? This thing with us is over. You are no longer fun, and I’m tired of even thinking about you. Go away; I’m well enough to take care of my own self my own way.”

Rustle was shocked into indigo by the words, but it also looked like Katrina was seriously upset. By him? By the illness? Who knew?

He felt at once sorry for her and dismayed that she’d dismiss him that way. He practically jumped across the room, triggering a fresh round of dizziness, when he let go of her hand. No more of her tricks. He was leaving and not coming back. He opened and then shut her door without a word and only leaned against the wall when he was safely in the hall.

Steadying himself as he crept along the wall, then in and out of the elevator, Rustle heard a sharp purple knocking up ahead, and raised his eyes to see Marie. She was at his door, holding a take-out container over his wastebasket. The whole hallway turned indigo as he convinced himself this wasn’t a hallucination. His steps slowed until he stopped, leaning against the wall, looking at her. And she was looking at him.

Marie walked slowly toward him, carrying the take-out container before her. She hadn’t been about to dump the food; he’d just left his wastebasket in front of his door. He hoped the bots had cleaned it. Since he didn’t smell vomit, they must have. And he did smell chicken soup. There was chicken soup in the wobbly plastic container Marie carried toward him like a sacrificial offering. Just which side of the mirror were they on?

“You brought chicken soup?”

“Chicken matzo ball soup.”

“I’m not Jewish.”

“Neither am I, but the deli owner may be.”

He stared hard at her, hair down, baggy sweatshirt, greasy eyes.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Are you real?”

She smiled, and the smile screamed real, then a screaming noise started singing the hokey-pokey as the indigo surroundings shifted to a curious purple.

“You’re too sick for the conversation you think we should have,” she said, taking his elbow like he was a feeble old man, “and I never had the moral high ground. Why don’t you rest and eat some soup.”

She escorted him into his own room, propped him up in bed, brought in his clean wastebasket, and watched him eat a few bites of soup. He didn’t manage very much before his new green information system told him he might be sick if he ate more.

“I’m sorry, I can’t eat much yet.”

“No problem,” she took it from his hands. “Can I try some?”

“But I’m sick.”

“I’m immune. That’s why I’m here.”

There was something not right in that, but he said, “Help yourself,” as unformed reasons arranged and rearranged themselves in his mind. She was being nice to him; she was immune; she knew a lot about viruses.

“Katrina’s sick too, and she’s been using drugs on me to make me be what she wanted.”

“At least it was only temporary.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rustle thought he saw tears in Marie’s tired eyes, but she rubbed them hard, like she was tired and not sad, then sat up straighter in his desk chair.

“Did it work? What did she want?”

“I guess it worked for a while. She wanted to be happy and to feel good, and maybe she wanted me to be happy too, maybe because that worked for her. I can kind of see her actions as justified, from her point of view. But today she tried to drug me after I said I didn’t want any, so I left.”

“And how do you feel about her now?”

“You really want to know?”

“Only if you want to tell me.”

“I’m still kind of, well, attracted to her. But yuck. I mean, she manipulated me to feel that way. Or part of it. It’s confusing; now how will I know what’s really me?”

“How did you know before?”

“Well, I was all me.”

“Once you said your education would have made you synesthetic, even if you might not have any of the known genetics.”

“Yeah—I just never thought of it that way,” and a green web spread out all around Rustle and caught a set of thoughts so he could think with them all together. “Even this sickness.”

Marie looked up sharply, eyes wide. A mental Venus flytrap snapped on that.

“Remember when you talked about the meaning of ‘I’ and representational schemas?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m still not sure what you meant, but while I was sick and more synesthetic or delusional or something, I developed this leaf green that sometimes seemed to be me and sometimes seemed to be a bunch of lines, connecting and moving ideas or smaller pieces about. I can’t explain, but right now it’s a web, and it pulled in all my memories, and language, and how ‘I’ was shaped by different things, right up to this sickness.”

“So do you resent the sickness?” She nodded as if she resented it, too.

“No, my mind’s on too good a trip.”

“What? Did you take something?” She moved in close. Like she was checking for pupil dilation.

“No, this sickness, it made me more synesthetic than ever, or maybe I just understand it better. Or maybe being sick makes me think I understand things, but it started before. When I—Last week, I thought I understood what you wanted. I didn’t mean to be horrible.”

There was a long pause and the white cloud that fluffed protectively around Marie shown against the indigo of his guilt. The sad lines of her face pulled down even farther, as if he’d made her feel worse with his apology, and he wanted to reach out to her but didn’t dare.

“I never meant to be horrible either, but sometimes the best we can hope for is not getting caught.”

“You haven’t been horrible.”

“I’m of many minds about that. You might be too, later. Soup?”

“Okay.”

He ate a few careful bites, enjoying the flimsy warmth in his hands, guessing that his fever was down. He passed the soup back to Marie who seemed distant even in the chair that barely fit between his bed and the desk. He couldn’t remember where the conversation broke off.

“I had this weird dream where I was a child who had never been born,” and he told her about his version of the emperor’s new clothes and the museum his mind had created.

As he finished, she tilted her head to stare at him and then placed a hand on his forehead. “You’re fever’s breaking. Is your green net still pulling things together?”

“There’s more than one net now.”

“And you’re glad?”

“Earlier I felt orange. It was amazingly good, and now I’m mostly teal, which is—”

“Figuring things out?”

“Yeah.” It didn’t sound like much in words, but he thought she understood as much as another person could. When had that happened? It seemed like she’d been quick to understand him since their first meeting on the roof. She took his hand, held it, and he was sure she understood.

“You never forget the first time.”

“Huh?”

“Something stupid someone said to me once, about something completely else. But I never forgot.”

Whatever she’d just said drifted into the smaller but growing web, the one with that look she gave him when he mentioned the sickness changing him, and some of the other stuff about immunity, and never meaning to be horrible. He wanted to study that web, understand it, but the green strands didn’t work that way. He felt himself sinking into his pillows, realized his eyes were already closed. Marie was still holding his hand.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

#### Chapter 10

 

_San Francisco Chronicle                     Sunday, Oct. 2, 2072_

_Hundreds in City Suddenly Ill_

_By Jordan Walsh, Chronicle Staff Writer_

_So far this weekend the San Francisco Medical Department has identified 482 cases of a new illness, dubbed the “SFO Flu,” and that number may be only the tip of an iceberg of a mostly unreported illness._

_Anyone experiencing a rapid onset of symptoms including high fever, dizziness, and disordered thinking is asked to notify their health care provider. This notification is for tracking purposes only. Most people will need only rest and fluids to recover within twenty-four hours._

_The sudden appearance of SFO flu has raised suspicions among medical personnel. “If it was just a natural virus, they’d have made an announcement. With rapid sequencing and pathogen ID, they must know something by now,” said Lana Freedman, a nurse at the 12th Street clinic in San Francisco. She admits that it’s frustrating to answer patients’ calls and not have solid information to offer._

_Some facts are known. There were no documented cases of SFO flu before Friday. Now cities such as Honolulu, Los Angeles, and San Francisco report several hundred cases each, with many more suspected. Because the first cases reported involved airport personnel and frequent flyers who had all passed through SFO within the last month, the illness was dubbed “SFO flu.”_

 

 

When Rustle woke, it was dark, and he was alone. There were sirens.

He pulled on a robe and slipped into sneakers without socks. He searched his phone for an emergency broadcast, but only found a bulletin on some new flu. His balance was back, though he felt empty, probably from not eating. Some half-eaten soup sat on his dresser, disintegrated pieces of matzo balls floating in oily broth.

He thought his green webs had been there while he slept, snapped just moments ago by the sound of sirens. There was something he needed to understand, but it trailed behind him as he rushed outside and down the front steps, hand firmly on the handrail, only noticing his recovery as he ran.

The hall and stairs were filled with pajama-clad, clothed-but-rumpled, and bath-robed figures, all rushing out to investigate the sirens. Rustle noticed older students, who had to be typs, and an assortment of new students milling around the cold stone steps, checking out a parked fire engine and ambulance.

Perhaps it was a universal response to sirens to run partially dressed into the damp of early morning, but it took only moments of cold before Rustle wondered if he should go back inside and get dressed. No one else was going back, and whispers were starting around, light pink whispers Rustle could barely make out.

He didn’t want to believe it as he hurried back inside, past his floor, up to the next, where a crowd of mostly women stood in the hall, and the door everyone watched was Katrina’s.

“What happened to Katrina?” he asked.

“Who are you?” a woman with long braids and pink pajamas asked.

“A friend. She was sick. I was taking care of her.”

“Well you didn't do a very good job.” She turned away and her braids swished with green menace.

Rustle recoiled and felt a pull like vacuum all around him, a whining sound almost beyond his hearing. What had he done? Had Katrina been much sicker than she appeared or had something happened with the drugs?

“You’re the guy who was getting her water,” said a boxy-faced woman with a fringe of dark hair. He must have been pretty far-gone not to remember that face, but he was grateful she recognized him.

“Yes. Did something happen after I left?”

The woman’s square jaw drooped and she pushed casually past pink pajamas to speak with him quietly. “There was screaming from her room, waking people up. Lots of us came out, knocking at her door, but she kept screaming, and I think someone must have called campus police. They went in and closed the door, but the screaming went on. Then the paramedics came and it got quiet. But they keep bringing in more equipment.”

Rustle didn’t know what to think. She hadn’t seemed any sicker than he was. If he was getting better, she should be too. So it must be the drugs. He’d warned her, but he’d also brought the red box. Why? Because she was entitled to make her own decisions or because she’d flirted at him? Rustle’s body flooded with cold indigo.

The boxy-faced woman was staring at him.

“I had no idea. I wish—” But what did he wish? A few nearby faces nodded as if they understood; other eyes shifted away.

Then the door opened and a stretcher rolled out with a long zipped bag on top. Even Rustle knew they didn’t zip live people up like that, but they wouldn't have let her die. She was genotypical with full medical entitlements. Losing education entitlements didn’t change that. If the paramedics arrived while she was still alive and screaming, they couldn’t let her die. Maybe she’d been screaming because someone else was dead in her room. No, that didn’t make sense either.

The paramedics were maneuvering the stretcher into the elevator. It was getting away. Rustle burst through the crowd that held back, bound by some invisible line of authority or etiquette. He rushed forward and put his hand out so the elevator doors wouldn’t close.

“Who's in that? Is it Katrina?”

A pimply paramedic at the head of the stretcher nodded even as another said, “We can’t tell you anything.”

But Rustle knew now. He fell back in a cacophony of brown, his hand across the threshold dropping limp at his side. The doors closed, and he just stood there.

 

Back in his room, Rustle’s mind looped around and around. The illness, the drugs, the mean things he’d said, the mean things Katrina had said, the body bag.

Every loop included Katrina being dead, but in every memory of Katrina she was alive. So Rustle looped around and around, wanting to tire himself out, wanting to be too dizzy to think.

Finally he found himself flying through thick air. Dust motes brushed against him, sticking where they touched clothing, as if they were nothing more exotic than lint. The sky was green and unsteady, like insubstantial algae he pushed against, a swimmer of barely adequate skill.

He recognized he was dreaming as he recognized the shade of leaf green through which he swam. Thoughts had to push against beliefs even as arms had to push against water. But he didn’t mind moving slowly for now. The water was warm, and he’d grown accustomed to the dust or algae or whatever. If he looked down, maybe there would even be a view.

But instead there was a hard knocking, colorless and stark. He wanted to ignore it, but that was too much like something he didn’t want to think about.

“Yes,” he called out.

“Police, please open the door.”

Rustle stood, straightened the tangled bathrobe he still wore, and obeyed like a condemned man.

 

Two officers, one taller, one shorter, walked him down the hall. Bill saw but stood silently with his mouth a little ways open.

The police guided Rustle out the front door and took him across the highway in a silent, electric cruiser with lights on top, but not flashing. He saw the hole where he’d gotten pizza with Katrina, and tears flowed down his face for the first time. He’d surfaced from his dream accepting that she was dead, and if he understood correctly, he might be blamed for killing her.

The shorter officer read him something in the car, a list of his rights. The officer’s mouth was even with the back of the seat he was glancing over. Rustle could see the movements of speech rising across the upper half of the man’s face, but most of the words drifted by without even color.

At the end of the ride, the short cop asked Rustle if he understood.

“Yes,” Rustle said, though he didn’t. He signed a couple papers that he didn’t understand either and let the two officers escort him through a building. He hoped they’d leave him someplace quiet, because he felt a red tide rising inside him and helpful green letters labeled it “fear.” Rustle let the red liquid cut off words and thoughts as he was led down halls and into a room.

At first, only Rustle in his bathrobe and the two officers in their uniforms stood in a bright white room with a slight hum but no familiarity to it. Then another tall officer, a woman in uniform, entered, followed by another uniform, the one who had questioned him in Katrina’s room, and an older man in a tailored gray suit. The final man’s skin and features were so like Katrina’s (except for the eyes) that Rustle assumed it was her father, and he felt suddenly awkward.

“Please, be seated,” the tall female officer said. “Video recorders are on. I am Police Lieutenant Julia Kelley. Rustle Andoin is here for questioning in relation to the death of Katrina Correa. Will the officers and the representative for prevention management please introduce themselves.”

As the other cops said their names, Rustle stared at the older man, the one he’d assumed was Katrina’s father. He must be the representative from prevention management. But why did they need a representative, and could it be a coincidence that he looked so much like Katrina? Was Katrina’s dream confession of her father working for prevention management true?

Then that man’s turn came and he said, “I am Regional Director George Correa, representing prevention management. I am also the father of the deceased, but I have come to serve regardless.”

Lieutenant Kelly raised her eyebrows at this, but Mr. Correa nodded in a dismissing manner, and she said, “Please make your statement.”

“This young man, Rustle Andoin, comes from a synesthetic intunity, and it is my duty to inform you of differences that may be relevant to the proceedings. Synesthesia can cause sensory and emotional input to be processed in multiple modalities. A synesthete may attach colors to emotions or words, may hear smells, taste sounds, etcetera. This condition has previously not been judged to impair competency in legal proceedings, although communications may be impaired by the inclusion of atypical sensory descriptors.”

When Mr. Correa finished talking, he gave Rustle a brief and toothy smile, then fixed his attention on the officer in charge.

She asked Rustle, “Have you noticed any communication difficulties since leaving your intunity?”

Rustle hesitated but said, “No.”

“Were you with Katrina Correa yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me what you did together?”

“She was sick.” Rustle said, determined not to use any descriptors, just in case. “I tried to take care of her, but I was sick, too. She wanted to take drugs to escape the effects of the illness, and I didn’t want to, so I left.”

Lieutenant Kelley pulled something red from a bag beside the table and asked, “Do you remember handling this box?”

It was Katrina’s red box, lacquered and tacky-looking in this plain, vibrating room. It sat, sealed in plastic, at the exact center of the transparent rectangular table.

Rustle glanced at Mr. Correa, who seemed to shiver with intensity. Images of intunites in prison, being beaten up by other prisoners or denied basic medical care, floated through Rustle’s mind. But they were just questioning him, not accusing him of anything, right?

“Rustle, do you remember handling this box?”

“Yes. Katrina asked me to get it for her from the dresser drawer.”

“Why couldn't she get it herself?”

“She was sick. We were both sick, but I’d been trying to help her, getting her water and stuff.”

“Did you know what was in the box?”

“Yes.”

“What did you know was in the box?”

“Bliss VIII, Mellow I, some other drugs, all legal, I assume. I told her it was a bad idea when she was sick.”

“But you brought her the box anyway?”

He nodded, feeling as culpable as the officer must think he was.

“Were you there when she took the drugs?”

“No.”

The tall officer looked pointedly down at him, as if he was a small child. “Are you sure?”

“Look, she tried to dose me after I said no, and—”

 “What?”

Rustle spoke fast, as everyone around the table sat forward. “She’d given me drugs before, without my knowledge. This time, I’d told her I didn’t want to do that while I was sick. So when she tried to rub some stuff on my neck—“

“She would not,” said Mr. Correa. “This synesthete is slandering my daughter. I won’t have it.”

Rustle realized he’d never heard the term “synesthete” used as an insult before. It spread in circles, a ripple in the red puddle of his fear, even as he wanted urgently to explain about Katrina, even as his mental language net filed the usage away.

The female officer, still standing, looked down at Mr. Correa with the same sharpness she’d shown Rustle a moment before. A very faint purple crept out around her, and Rustle leaned forward. The officer said, “Regardless, I need to hear his statement. I remind you that you’re here in an official capacity and all statements are on the record.” She nodded at Rustle.

“She dipped her finger in Mellow and tried to wipe it on my neck, but I was expecting it this time and caught her hand. She probably didn’t think it would hurt me. She did it the night before, without me knowing, to make me more agreeable I think. And well, I’d pointed out that on Bliss she’d probably tell me the truth about what she thought of me. She’d said some pretty mixed up things while she was sick.”

“What sort of things?”

“Well, she’d had this dream that her father was promoted to head of prevention management and was part of some bad things.” Mr. Correa rose slightly from his seat but was silent at a look from the lieutenant. “But after that she said maybe I didn’t matter much because I was from an intunity and I didn’t think right.”

“Had your daughter previously questioned your work in prevention management, Advisor?” the woman asked Mr. Correa.

“I don’t believe a word of this. He may have been trying to subvert Katrina, but she was much too strong for that.”

“And her eyes? What about her interest in pseudo-genetic couture?”

Katrina’s father looked at the lieutenant like she had no right to even know about Katrina’s eyes, let alone question him. Nonetheless he answered, “Teenage rebellion; nothing political. And I’m not here as her father, remember?”

“Perhaps we should request a different representative.”

“I am the director for prevention management in this region, and I deem myself fit to serve. There will be no more personal comments on my side, and I trust there will be no more from any officer present.”

After a scan around the room, the lieutenant nodded.

“What exactly was your relationship with Katrina?” The questioning shifted back to Rustle.

“Well, I guess you could say we went out a couple times.”

“Was she your girlfriend?”

“I think she was more interested in Rob-O.”

“Is that his full name?”

Rustle shrugged and the officer laid a finger beside her jaw and subvocalized something. Then she gazed around the rest of the table and asked, “Do those present agree we should proceed to a hearing?”

“Yes,” answered each of the officers.

“Definitely,” said Mr. Correa.

After more subvocalization, someone else in uniform came to the room and handcuffed Rustle without a word.

“Please go with Officer Heak for processing.”

Rustle started to rise, to do what he was told, but the growing fringe of purple around the tall woman sounded like a distant foghorn, and he said, “Do I need legal representation? Are they going to put me in jail?”

“You’ll be processed and brought to a hearing. Are you requesting legal aid?”

“Yes?” Rustle wasn’t sure if he’d have to pay for this, but something in the cop’s purple aura seemed to whiten as she nodded.

He followed Officer Heak out of the room and down the hall to what looked like a closet with a partially transparent shower door. The officer held the door and Rustle stepped inside looking for any kind of nozzle, but the walls were completely bare, smooth like the inside of a cubic can.

As Heak shut the door he said, “Please stand still for imaging.” But Rustle didn’t have time to think it through before a hum started above him and to the right, so he looked toward the noise and Heak repeated, “Please stand still for imaging.”

Rustle stood very still as the hum passed down one side of the stall and up behind him. When the noise stopped, he stood still just in case. Then the door opened, and Heak motioned him further down the hall to a machine that asked him, in a curt, feminine, recorded voice, to: “Insert index finger.”

Rustle did it without thinking and then was shocked to feel a prick. Were they taking a blood sample? Were they going to map his DNA? Or maybe test for drugs or that new flu?

But it was done, and Heak was leading him by the arm a few doors further down the hall. Less than fifty meters from where he’d been questioned, Rustle was told to sit in the side chair in a room with a vid-wall, four chairs facing it, and one chair, his, to the side. Rustle sat.

He sat until he was bored. Officer Heak was sitting in one of the chairs facing the blank vid-wall, so Rustle asked, “Can you tell me what’s going to happen here?”

“No.”

Rustle resolved himself to silence. He tried to open his sensorium, experience this new environment the way he’d been taught at home, but it didn’t work. He tried to conjure his green self or the one with the pirate hat, but couldn’t. He tried not to think over and over again about that final conversation in Katrina’s bedroom, but it spooled through his mind as if he’d been on Mem-u-solve.

By the time Lieutenant Kelley and Katrina’s father walked in, Rustle was grateful for any distraction. They took two seats beside Officer Heak and looked to the vid-wall as if they were expecting a broadcast, so Rustle watched too.

A very old man with thinning gray hair and a large nose appeared on the screen. He was seated behind a high desk with some papers and a tiny gavel on top. A glow from the desktop in front of him hinted at an embedded comp-screen. He adjusted a loose black cloak he wore and gave his little gavel a cursory tap.

“George Correa requests that Rustle Andoin be held as a suspect in the undetermined cause of death case concerning Katrina Correa?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” said Mr. Correa.

Rustle clutched the arms of his chair and wondered if he was being accused by Katrina’s father or by a representative of prevention management.

“Confirmation received. Bringing on Court-appointed Representative An.”

The vid-screen split, showing a lower metal desk with a higher stack of papers and a partially embedded comp-screen in a more brightly lit room. The man behind this desk looked thin and unnaturally yellow, a trick of the light Rustle supposed, but it reminded him of the colors he wasn’t seeing for himself right now.

“I, Judge Sahm, have had time to review the report and initial suspect interview,” said the judge while looking down at papers on his desk.

“I, Representative An, have as well, Your Honor,” said An.

“Do you wish to enter any comments?”

“Yes, Your Honor, I do.” The judge nodded, still looking at his papers. “First, I request an investigation into genetic discrimination if this case proceeds. I submit now marked statements from George Correa and alleged statements from the late Katrina Correa.”

Judge Sahm nodded without looking up.

“Next, I submit an application for full medical and educational rights on behalf of Rustle Andoin. His intake paperwork showed him as unknown and presumed non-genotypical, but his genotype by current police blood test is within accepted parameters.”

The judge looked alert and interested for the first time. “He had no previous record or application?”

“No, Your Honor.”

“Did you know you qualified, Mr. Andoin?” The judge’s gaze seemed slightly off as he looked toward Rustle’s side chair from the screen.

Mr. Correa said, “He’s what?”

Rustle, fast forwarding through the conversation said, “I’m entitled? We don’t test, but I assumed—”

On the split screen, judge and representative almost in synchrony consulted two sheets of paper and then their comp-screens.

Finally the judge asked, chin projecting forward slightly, “Did anyone obtain a genetic disclosure release?”

The two officers present in the room with Rustle and Mr. Correa both shook their heads.

The judge said rapidly, “This hearing is postponed until further notice,” and both sides of the vid-screen went neutral, tan as the wall.

“I need to make a phone call,” Katrina’s father whispered as he hurried out of the room. The female officer followed more slowly.

Rustle looked at Officer Heak and said, “I don’t suppose you’d explain any of that?”

“No.”

 

Half an hour later, Rustle’s handcuffs were removed and he was driven back to Nutty U by the police officer who’d once questioned him and Katrina but hadn’t said a word to him today. He couldn’t remember the man’s name, but tried asking, “Can you explain to me what’s going on?”

“Not at all.”

Rustle stared out the window wondering if he could contact Representative An for an explanation. He also wondered if he was he was really free.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

#### Chapter 11

 

_Far from the Tree                    Sunday, Oct. 2, 2072_

_Mystery Virus Strikes Campus_

_By Tim Id Not, Tree Correspondent_

_What does Nutty U have in common with Honolulu, Los Angeles, and San Francisco? Unfortunately, just a virus. By this reporter’s count, at least 5% of students are now experiencing or have already enjoyed the fever, dizziness, and disordered thinking associated with what some are calling the “SFO flu.” Five percent may not seem like a lot, but it’s a higher percentage than any city’s reported so far. Why so many cases here at Nutty U?_

_Representatives of the CDC have been spotted on campus, but were not available for comment. One formerly sick student interviewed by CDC reps claims to have been told that it’s not a flu. The student, who does not wish to be identified, said, “I got the feeling they thought it was an engineered something that triggered changes in the brain. I think they’re investigating us because we admitted gene freaks this year and because of all the activists around.”_

_Is this a plague spread by non-genotypicals? Not likely. So far, the graduate student dorms seem to have been the hardest hit, and they have almost none of the new students._

_Could activists on campus have released an engineered virus? Perhaps, but to what purpose? The earliest cases all seem to have recovered within 24 hours, though a few report lingering mental effects. Has someone built a virus to change people’s minds? If so, about what? If you wanted to convince people to give gene freaks equal rights, you’d hardly start here, and no one in Congress has been reported sick._

_You might notice the CDC reps aren’t wearing masks as they track down cases. Maybe the government has a cure they aren’t sharing with the rest of us. Or maybe the government built a virus to make us shun our gene freak friends and do whatever our president tells us to do._

_In the interest of full disclosure, I’ll tell you that I, your dedicated reporter, am one of the recently recovered, but the CDC still won’t talk to me. If I see things differently now, is it because of a mind-altering disease or because no officials will comment?_

_What should you do if you get SFO flu? Don’t listen to anything the president says. Stay in bed, drink lots of fluids, and call the health center. Remember, all students can get medical care, and free condoms too, at Nutty U._

 

 

When the security guard dropped him in front of Chomsky Hall it was already warm out, midmorning?

Rustle realized he wasn’t carrying his phone. Nor was he wearing socks or regular clothes, just a bathrobe and pajamas. Somehow he didn’t care. He didn’t want his phone or clothes badly enough to go back inside his, and Katrina’s, dorm right now. So he wandered, glancing at the front of the campus newspaper on a smart paper stand. He shook his head and went into the garden to sit on a planter edge beside the overgrown heap that might once have been a second windmill. A sunflower was growing behind what looked like a blade.

A restlessness in his mind cataloged most of the parts and put together a plausible former structure, definitely a windmill. Marie came and sat beside him. She didn’t say anything, just sat with him staring at the windmill.

“You hear about Katrina?” he asked without shifting his gaze.

“Yeah. I’m sorry.”

“You hear the police took me in?”

“I figured it out.”

“You hear I’ve decided to be an architect?”

“No.” Marie turned toward him at that. In his peripheral vision she felt burnt orange, and it took whole seconds to realize it was her clothing without really looking. Then his own indigo and brown misted up, and his eyes stung.

“I just decided, sitting here, figuring out that windmill.”

“Just like that?”

“No, but it all came together. One of those little green nets, except I don’t see it that way right now.”

“How do you see it?”

He felt her focus like a warm cocoon around him, hot pink and calming gray together, so part of him wanted to flee even as the rest felt snug and cozy. He regathered his thoughts.

“I don’t see it at all; my mind just spits out conclusions and a vague sense of why. But you said you understood people’s neuroscience well, by guessing. You didn’t guess me as normal, did you?”

“Sitting out here in a bathrobe?” She tried to smile, but her lips barely twitched. Rustle realized he was looking at her, seeing the red in her eyes and hairs falling from her unkempt pony tail. “Normal isn’t a set of official parameters, something to be understood scientifically or by rational thought processes.”

“Oh. They say I’m typical, and entitled. And I think they let me go because I didn’t sign some disclosure waiver, but no one would tell me what that meant. Do you know?”

She laughed, then frowned. “No, but I can probably find out. Did they offer you a copy of your genome?”

“No.”

“Well, I know you’re entitled to that. I can find you the website to request it.”

“You think I should?”

“Definitely.”

“Why?”

She looked at him, her eyes watery, but shaking her head like she didn’t care. “If you request the genotype, I could try to figure out what synesthetic factors you do and don’t have, and whether there are parts you want partitioned as private when you seek employment or whatever.” She looked down, and the cocoon that held Rustle loosened. “Besides, your information is out there now. It’s safest if more than one side understands it.”

“You sure I should show you?”

She shook her head and the cocoon holding him fell to shreds. He wanted it back. All the hot pink was gone, and he wanted to hold Marie, to offer her the safe gray parts of what he’d felt. Something told him she couldn’t take that sort of comfort from him right now, not without even more of whatever his hot pink worry translated to in her mind. Again, he tried to pull his thoughts together and speak.

“Naw, it sounds useful.”

She smiled, and it tingled black across his skin.

“You seriously think you’ll become an architect?”

“Right now, yeah.”

“Then think about this sometime. You know how programmers build ‘backdoors’?” He nodded, having only a vague idea. What if clever architects built backdoors, secret ones, hidden ones, into their designs?”

“They’d need rationales for obvious peculiarities, and then they’d have to build the structures by themselves, or with bots, secure bots—”

“Exactly. And they might discover all sorts of useful, unexpected advantages in the process.”

“Divergent thinking?”

“Only sort of. Come on, I’ll show you how to request a copy of your genome, and maybe answer some of your legal questions.”

 

By Tuesday, SFO flu was national, even international, news.

Rustle looked at the backlog of flagged articles on his phone and wondered what he’d been doing the last few days. He’d attended all of his classes and mechanically completed his assignments, but the details were limp, cold and unapproachable. He remembered indigo mornings of not wanting to leave his bed, convoluted dreams of Katrina haunting his sleep. But the days ran together, moments of photographic color surrounded by muddy, puddling numbness.

He picked up his phone to find out more, suddenly eager to research virus-drug interactions but found nothing solid, though at least one terrorist watch group suggested the virus was engineered and speculated on a new field of bio-terrorism aiming directly for the hearts and “minds” of Americans. They claimed to have derived the exact date and time a carrier or delivery device might have been at SFO to contact those in the first wave of infection. They also speculated that military personnel were immune because of government immunity boosters aimed at engineered viruses.

Rustle let his mind mull over the virus news while he opened a picture from his mom. It showed her smiling in front of a cement building labeled “San Francisco Free Clinic.” Without pausing to think, he sent back, “Glad you’re better. Me, too.” He wanted to say he missed her but just shifted the text to indigo and sent it.

Then he brought up Nutty U’s winter course list. There was a mechanical engineering bot class he would like to take someday, but the prereqs were tough and pretty far from the required curriculum for architecture. Then he found a graduate level class in household automation that drew on both architecture and mech e. With no conscious effort, a plan to cover both areas in four years, optimizing for classes that fit both programs and ending up with a double major, fell into place and he caught it almost effortlessly with notes in his phone. The falling thoughts were leaf green again, though he hadn’t seen the green webs since the last day of his illness.

The part of his mind, also green, that had been bouncing thoughts about the virus around suddenly reasserted itself, pointing out that Marie could probably explain more about SFO flu. With photographic clarity he decided to call her.

As he clicked for her number, he followed an impulse to cross-search the student directory and the map showing her intunity. Only Marie and another first year grad named Shauna popped up. He bookmarked Shauna’s data as he called Marie.

She answered with, “I’m in lab, and I’ve got your genome here, too. Why don’t you come on over?”

           

Rustle made his way to a tall white building, part of the medical loop connecting certain research buildings on campus to the teaching hospital next door. He’d never been inside any of these buildings. When he reached the floor Marie had specified, he had to patch his phone into the hospital system and call Marie to escort him. Apparently, the student ID in her phone was enough to get them through two hallway doors and then into the lab.

She didn’t say anything, but she seemed to sizzle in his mind. It wasn’t like any sensory crossover he’d known before. It was a sound or a touch on his thinking. It had no color, no mood. But his thoughts felt sharper and there was a sense of connection, like in the best conversations, except they weren’t talking. Rustle only then thought to look at Marie. She seemed very crisp, hair smoothly clipped back, skin pale but clear, eyes dark with rings but not red at the moment. Her sweater was a tight, white weave, and her pants were tan with no visible pockets.

The lab was mostly a big, empty room. Every wall was a cupboard or a fume hood. Lower cupboards supported counters that encircled Rustle from all sides at once. Above most of the counters were clear plastic cupboards, many visibly dusty in the corners. The ceiling was white with bright glowing panels. The floor was also white, but with a pattern of narrow blue lines like graph paper. Two islands rose in the middle, each with two computer set-ups and some counter space. One island supported two microscopes as well, and Marie led him toward that one.

“I thought you were doing math to avoid this?” Rustle said.

“I’m just taking one neural microgenetics lab, for fun.”

“You don’t build things in here, do you?”

“No. Wouldn’t want to trouble an ethics board. But what good is it to study at a well-funded medical university if I don’t get to play with the toys? Look, here’s what I did with your genome.”

Since Marie had shown him how to apply for and receive a copy online, Rustle had let the encrypted version sit on his phone. He was glad to have a copy, since he was entitled to it, but beyond that, he was still adjusting to the idea of being genotypical. Marie had shown him how to track the medical and educational rights applications Representative An had filed on his behalf, and from An’s notes they’d concluded that the consent form he hadn’t been given had probably gotten him off the hook with the judge and the police.

“Here’s a standard shareware accounting of your genetic assets and liabilities. Remember, the government scan tested only your basic sequence, just ACGT, so it’s really only a sketch of possibilities,” Marie said, pointing to a colorful bar graph labeled solely in numbers. “This program could create a standard privacy petition before you allow access to your future employers and so on. However, you do well on mental health sectors, so you probably don’t want that. Not above 50% risk on any major diseases. Nice metabolism. Small soy processing difficulties.” She waved a mock lecturing finger at him: “Got it? Limit your daily soy.”

He felt black strings pulling at his attention, damping the sizzle from his brain as she scrolled though pages and pages of bar graphs. “You’re very healthy for no screening.”

“What’s that?” he asked, as she paused at a chart with one bar tower looming high above the others.

“That’s a control region for proteins that mostly build parvocellular systems.”

“That’s something you divergent thinkers have, isn’t it?”

“Sometimes. This control region isn’t any part of what we’re excluded for, but related systems come into play. You get some of the same correlates, especially in aspects of ‘holistic’ or ‘big picture’ thinking. Could those be related to your green nets?”

“But those are marked as new.”

“Probably, since you didn’t know your genotype before, we can only speculate, but this genetic modification does seem to be the core for one of the viruses causing SFO flu.”

“It’s a gene-altering virus? Then it must be engineered.”

“Not necessarily. I could cite a few naturally occurring retroviruses that alter DNA almost as much, but this graph is showing a spike in expression, in the activity caused by that segment of DNA. Anyway, the second virus involved is definitely engineered; the government all but admits it.”

Rustle stood up and turned his back to Marie and the screen for a moment. Someone had altered his genes? Could they have made him genotypical? But that wasn’t how Marie’s words and the news articles fit together. Had someone engineered a virus to make people more “holistic” or “big picture” thinkers? What terrorist goals would that achieve? Rustle immediately saw how the genetic diversity activists on campus might hope to benefit and his brain began to sizzle again. But it wasn’t a particularly direct or controlled form of attack, and did they have the sophistication? Even if Rustle might support their goals, he wouldn’t support forcibly changing people. First Katrina had manipulated him with drugs, and now this. A comment Marie had made about the drugs at least being short term clicked into place in his mind.

“You knew all this when you brought me soup.”

“Not all of it.” She was looking at him again, that way she had of scanning a person top to bottom, as if she had interpretive x-ray vision. He looked at her too, how clean scrubbed she was today. Her clothes were so white that they resembled medical wear in the sterile room. Her hair was tied back but not greasy; her eyes, no longer red. But a brown haze dirtied her in his vision and the black strings he’d felt before had all snapped.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.

Marie recoiled as if he’d shouted, which he hadn’t, but he softened his voice anyway. “I mean, this is creepy, and I had no idea someone was messing with my DNA.”

Marie glanced nervously around the room, as if afraid of him or of someone listening. “The CDC or Homeland Security’s probably hushing it up, but if there’s a secret gag rule, I’m not in a position to be told. Anyone with a little knowledge and equipment will detect both viruses’ role in the outbreak.”

“So what’s the second one?”

“There are viruses floating around that trigger immune reactions to certain features common in engineered carriers. I’ve always assumed the government makes them. They admit to using such measures on members of the military. Maybe those viruses are intentionally easy to transmit, or maybe they infect civilians with something different. I don’t imagine they’d want soldiers sick in bed when hit with something mostly harmless like this control region adjustment.”

“Wait. The government infects civilians with something to make them immune to engineered viruses, and no one knows?”

“Oh, people know; I figured it out when I was seventeen. But our government has laws to prevent medical personnel and scientists from discussing certain things, and other laws to prevent them discussing what they can’t discuss. I never mentioned any of this to my mother; because then I might have been officially told what not to talk about. To me, that stifling of information is more abhorrent than clever DNA-altering viruses going about their business.”

Rustle swayed where he stood as he tried to take all this in. It reminded him of that first day on the roof when Marie had said she sometimes liked viruses better than humans. But now he saw mostly a trustworthy white spreading out from her sweater with just a light dusting of brown. The leaf green of his altered thinking no longer scared him, though he sensed it was where the brown doubts came from. His voice, or maybe the part of his thinking that controlled speech, was leaf green when he asked, “How can you object to a gag rule more than a DNA-altering virus?”

Marie stood up and looked straight at him. “I object to gag rules about gag rules about immune-altering viruses, and just for the record, the one prevalent when I was seventeen did alter some DNA, and almost every recent sample shows that tampering. It’s probably why they released the new one.”

“What?”

“The virus interacting with the parvocellular control region virus. It was built, presumably by the same government that released the first one, assuming new vectors would adapt for the older virus and DNA tweak. And it doesn’t directly alter DNA, so researchers will probably only spot it in samples where it’s actively producing antibodies. Oddly enough, in the current case the government virus triggers a cascade of much faster protein production and cellular modification in those with the current DNA-altering virus. Instead of immunity, it speeds the alterations and makes people sick.”

“But you said you were immune?”

“I already have the DNA variant in question, so the altering virus didn’t activate and the immune booster didn’t trigger, but I wasn’t sure Sunday of the new immune virus’ full effects.”

Her intensity rubbed like sandpaper on his skin, like she wanted him to understand even if it hurt. Taking in too much at once needled at Rustle, bringing the new sensation in his thoughts closer to pain than to touch or hearing. Still, he figured she had some right to brag if she’d figured all this out on her own. And maybe she needed to tell someone, since it sounded like she couldn’t tell her own mother.

“Are you doing this for class?”

“No, of course not. I’d just get bureaucratically harassed and told not to talk about it.”

“But you’re telling me.”

“Which might be a problem if you were a required reporter, as those already under the gag rule must be, or if certain people found out about this conversation”

“Now you’re telling me not to tell anyone?”

“No, that would be unfair,” she smiled a little lopsided. “But you might want to be careful who you tell and how you specify where you got your information. I had to tell someone, and otherwise you were pushing into things blind. The government has all the resources for a cover-up, so most people may never know that the government messed with their DNA first. They’ll blame terrorists as the government wants them to, and not realize that whatever the terrorist intended, the government’s tampering caused much of the distress. Whatever happens, information needs to be shared. You have a good mind for keeping secrets,” she sat again and panned through pages of bar graphs that meant nothing to him. “This here,” a medium-height tower marked in blue, “shows you’re not very susceptible to interrogation, even under moderate drug influence.”

“What, I have genetics for that?”

“You have a variant that’s been studied because it correlates with ‘that.’ Of course, other factors like upbringing and epigenetics might play an even larger role, but I don’t have any data on that, just my own suppositions. If Homeland Security comes for you, I’ll probably make myself scarce.”

Her words sprouted the creepy lime and hot pink spikes that had worried Rustle up on the roof. Was it just because she’d mentioned Homeland Security? He didn’t have the science to check what she was saying, but could regular people figure out things like this? She’d said the government sometimes recruited people from her intunity, but if he wasn’t going to believe the rest, then maybe he should doubt that too.

Still, she’d claimed to be immune and hadn’t gotten sick, and that was before news about the virus, or viruses, had hit the paper. Wasn’t it?

“Why did you tell me?”

Now she turned half away on her swivel chair. “I could point to a genetic urge to communication or to empathic, friendship-building proclivities. I could say I recognize in you a curiosity like my own, that we’re both drawn to slightly dangerous people. I could say we both like to play with fire.”

Something in that clicked with his own thinking, with pieces he’d been rearranging as he sorted out his feelings toward Katrina. Now, listening to Marie, a black intensity began to build once more. To hide it he asked, “Is that genetic?”

“Probably some aspects, but I haven’t seen any research.”

“And because you like to play with fire, you tell me things that make me more dangerous to you?” He wanted to step closer to her, to touch her, but bad memories from just before he got sick came pounding back at him. She’d never really let him apologize or discuss what had happened. That tore at him a bit, and that torn sensation seemed to feed his interest in her. Did she know? What sort of games was she playing with him? And was he drawn to people like that?

She hadn’t answered his question. She was watching his face again.

“How well can you guess what I’m thinking?” he asked.

“I’m not a mind-reader. If my mental model of you is good, I still can’t know exactly what you’re thinking. I might infer that you’re very volatile right now, and whatever my personal reactions to that might be, this isn’t a good time or place.”

Rustle let his vision trace the gridlike blue lines on the floor. The lines flashed black and blue and rotten and sweet. He wondered how good his “mental model” of Marie was. What her “personal reactions” would be if there was “a good time and place.” He felt Marie’s sleeve brush his as she walked past him to the door.

“I’ll walk you past the locked areas.”

“Wouldn’t they let me out?”

“Yes, but I’m supposed to.”

Rustle didn’t believe she was eager to get rid of him, but she stood tall with her back straight and didn’t meet his eyes. He saw her tangled in conflicting black, purple, and indigo. The blend was provocative and sumptuous, and if those colors cloaked him, he’d want someone to make a move no matter what he said. But he couldn’t trust his reading of people that way. Last time he’d guessed wrong with Marie, and he still wasn’t sure what she’d intended or felt. He wanted to know, but they were already in the last hall doorway.

“See ya’?” he asked, trying to show just a hint of interest.

She nodded, and as she turned away he let his desire envelop her in black.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

#### Chapter 12

 

_San Francisco Chronicle                                 Wednesday, Oct.5, 2072_

#  _Surprise! You’re Genotypical, Like It or Not_

_By Sharice Cosby, Chronicle Correspondent_

_A Hershenstein University student brought into police headquarters in Vacaville on Sunday was accidentally informed that he’s genotypical. Rustle Andoin was raised in a synesthetic intunity that declines all DNA testing. Vacaville Police Chief Wong did not say why Andoin had been in custody, but verified that he had been arrested, his DNA had been recorded, and he’d been released with no charges filed._

_Andoin was accidentally informed of his genetic status during a preliminary hearing, at which point the judge realized no genetic disclosure release had been obtained._

_A 2061 court case, Charnot vs. the State of California, clarified that those subject to DNA testing after arrest, whether later convicted or not, have a right to full disclosure of their DNA. They may also choose not be told anything about their DNA unless it is used as evidence in their trial. Andoin’s case was dismissed before the trial phase._

_Attorney Ed Donaldson, a specialist in genetic law and Dean of Bennett School of Law, commented, “If the boy grew up not knowing his genetic status, he should not have been exposed to that information without giving informed consent.” When asked if he thought Andoin had been released because of the mistake, Donaldson refused to “speculate without knowing the details of the case.”_

_While the circumstances surrounding Rustle Andoin’s arrest are a mystery, his school, Hershenstein University, has been a focal point for controversy lately. In September they admitted a mixed class of genotypicals and non-genotypicals, using private funds to make up for lost federal education money and provide equivalent funding to those presumed ineligible._

_Genetics activists have been swarming to the school ever since, using it as both a social model and a political staging ground. With them came bloggers and other news media. Then, over the weekend, the school was hit hard by the SFO flu, a virus some claim was genetically engineered._

_It remains to be seen if Andoin’s arrest was related to other events at Hershenstein. If so, was the disclosure truly accidental? Either way, will knowing that he qualifies as typical change how this young man views himself or his future?_

 

 

Bed was warm and safe and white the next morning. Outside seemed too bright and prickly lime green. Mr. Lincoln had told him to get up an hour ago, but somehow Rustle kept half waking up, still in bed, and rolling over to bury his face in his pillow or under the covers, anything to block the light from the window.

Katrina was dead. The most attractive woman he’d met since he left home, and she was dead. Okay, maybe it was easier to forgive her a few other things because she wasn’t around anymore, but his skin missed her. Parts of him that danced and reached out missed her.

Marie’s thing about government immune viruses was too much to swallow whole, whether it was true or not. Marie—Marie confused him. He squirmed back under the covers, legs tangled in his sheet but not annoyingly so, and closed his eyes tight trying to sleep.

A lime green knock interrupted his thoughts.

“Who is it?”

“Vincent Spagglio with the mayor’s office, looking for Rustle Andoin.”

That woke him up. He was instantly sitting on the side of his bed pulling on whatever clothes were on top in each drawer. “One minute.”

What would the mayor’s office have to do with anything? Were they going to take over where the police had left off? Or were they one level higher than the police and trying to avoid trouble? What exactly did a mayor do anyway? His intunity didn’t have offices like that.

Rustle combed his hair, but he couldn’t wet it or wash without going down the hall to get to the bathroom. He opened his door enough to peek out and say, “Can I help you?”

Mr. Spagglio (he had a name tag) extended his hand, and Rustle reflexively shook it. A camera flashed, and somehow Spagglio pulled Rustle into the hall where he said, “This is Mayor Denton”; more flash bulbs and a spotlight from a huge shoulder-mounted blogger cam.

“Rustle Andoin.” The mayor was balding and round. Without knowing what a mayor did, Rustle was sure this was how a mayor was supposed to look. “On behalf of the City of Vacaville, I’d like to be the first to congratulate you on relisting as genotypical. I hope you’ll make the most of what society has to offer.”

Rustle wondered for a moment if this was a dream, but asking that question in dreams always made them feel not quite real or too intense, and this situation in the hallway continued to just seem weird.

A wiry man with a multi-pocket vest and a camera attached (perhaps surgically?) over one eye was now staring at Rustle with the other. He held forward a data screen with a picture of a police officer and the news title, “Surprise! You’re Genotypical, Like It or Not.”

“Rustle Andoin, were you asked if you wanted your genome tested?”

Rustle didn’t answer, realizing he should perhaps smile back at the mayor who was smiling through a series of pictures, still pumping Rustle’s hand.

The wiry man repeated, “Were you asked if you wanted to know your genetic status?”

A small person, a dwarf or midget, appeared under the arms of what Rustle realized was a crowd and started snapping pictures with an ordinary phone.

A big man shouted over the heads of the others, “Anything you want to tell people back home at your synesthetic intunity?”

Rustle wanted to duck back inside his room and lock the door, but there were people standing in the way now, taking pictures of his unmade bed and the talking toys lining his shelf. No one had ventured inside, but they were quite effectively blocking his escape.

“How does it feel to suddenly be part of normal society?” a woman with a microphone in his face asked. Was she normal or not? Who did all these reporter types represent, and what would happen if he answered them?

A string of young muscular men in black jeans and tight black shirts swept through the crowd. Bodies rearranging like water around a bubble they created. The bubble suddenly held Rustle and a woman with a shaved head and unnaturally pointy ears.

“Hi, I’m Nina.” She had her hand on his arm like they were comfortable friends. “I’m with _On the Spot News_ , and I can offer you ten thousand plus ten percent for an exclusive interview. Our security can take care of these paparazzi, and our liability insurance will cover anything you might say live that causes trouble. Is it a deal?”

“Uh, I’d have to think about it.”

“We go out live in ten. But I’ll beam our offer to your phone with links to standard business and legal ratings. You’ll see we’re good for it. You’re the news of the moment, and that’s what we cover.”

Rustle instinctively flipped through the data on his phone while the guys in black held the crowd off. _On the Spot_ looked legit. He ran a quick search for reviews Nina hadn’t linked, but found nothing too bad right off.

“Clock’s ticking. It’s us or them.”

A bubble of mental silence popped as Rustle realized the hall was full of people beyond the circle of black-clad security men. Someone shouted out in piercing florescent green, “I’m the Genes and Freedom Party candidate, let me through.”

Money, crowd control, and liability coverage sounded good, and maybe it wouldn’t hurt to be the news of the moment.

“Can I take a shower first?”

Nina smiled, successful predator and proud of it. “Two minutes, maybe. Just splash your face, and we’ll set you up in the common room.”

The bubble around them shifted to the bathroom door. Two guys in black came in with him as he did his business, then splashed his face and scrubbed it dry with a paper towel. “Shouldn’t I shave?”

“No,” one answered like he was the authority on Rustle’s stubble.

They reemerged into a hallway blocked by black-clad security at one side of the bathroom and at the far side of the elevator, which stood waiting, doors open. The crowds behind each blockade rumbled like a violet and pink tide, and Rustle was glad for the human flood gates. As Nina led the way, Rustle saw a full-sized human eye implanted in the hollow at the base of her skull. It blinked but didn’t track or fixate, just gazed straight back from the moving bald head. No way it could see, but surely that was cutting-edge body mod anyway. Mr. “Decisive About Not Shaving” nudged Rustle forward to the elevator and then pushed the down button.

They emerged into an unusually vivid and visible common room. Rustle counted five big lights set up around the sofa by the fire, burning away any of his familiar white preconceptions. Someone was rearranging pizza boxes on the fireside table, and Rustle realized they were either props or had been retrieved from the recycling bins, since the bots would have long since removed any mess from last night.

Rustle was motioned to one end of the sofa. “Here, sit up,” said a deep black spiderlike, stretched-out woman. She was dressed in black too, but to totally different effect than the muscle men, wearing a unitard as long and stretched as her body. She clipped something to his shirt, then sprayed his hair with mist, slightly sticky and citrus scented. Her quick fingers poked right in, squished small sections of the damp stickiness, then flicked a few bits around. Rustle couldn’t imagine this treatment would make his hair look any neater. But the black-clad woman wiped her hands on a black cloth tucked into a black belt at her waist, and then she picked up powdery brushes and went to work on his face.

Rustle saw enough through his defensively slitted eyes to know something similar was happening to Nina, who sat near him on the sofa, finally being helped into a yellow blazer. Rustle looked down and determined the tee shirt he’d pulled on was light blue. Someone pushed his knees so they almost met Nina’s in a triangle and then there was a count, “3, 2, live,” and a finger pointed at them.

“We meet again,” Nina spoke to a huge and clunky-looking camera on a tripod just in front of them. “I’m Nina, and we’re _On the Spot_ ,” this time with Rustle Andoin at Hershenstein University in California. Tell us Rustle, where did you grow up?”

“Well, I grew up in a synesthetic intunity on the coast.”

When he paused Nina laid a hand just above his knee, and a sudden memory of Katrina rippled across him like wind on a pond. The room was submerged in light pink uncertainty.

“Did you surf or dive?”

“Uh, no, not me, but some people there did.”

“What did you do?”

“Uh, just the usual.” He wondered if they’d still pay him if he was proven the most boring person on earth. “I went to school, tinkered with bots, built speakers.”

“And all that time you thought you were synesthetic?”

“Well, probably everyone starts out a little synesthetic. Small kids just naturally have some sensory crossover.”

“Like what?”

“Like hearing bells when they smell cookies, or seeing certain words or feelings in pinks or greens.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, didn’t you ever, when you were little?”

She shrugged one shoulder and smiled mysteriously. Her hand above his knee squeezed gently, and some of the black from the spidery make-up woman seemed to be hovering over them, making him both chilled and brave, very red.

“Well, people don’t always remember,” he said, “because when the brain reorganizes, pruning connections and so on, we may forget memories stored when our minds were different. But my intunity’s schools were set up to build on whatever natural sensorium we had. So I guess I knew I wasn’t extremely synesthetic, but both of my parents qualified. They were tested and rejected by the government, and in our community, that was more than enough.”

“But no one there lets their kids be tested now?”

The way she said it, it sounded like the kids were being deprived. “It just doesn’t come up. We have our own schools and medical. We have our own society and ways of communicating. It’s a nice place.”

“But you came here?”

“Guess I was curious, and my intunity supported it.”

“How do they feel about your forced genetic testing?”

“Uh…” Rustle realized how completely he’d been cut off from home since he came to school. No one but his mom had called him, except his dad that one time. But how could he explain? At home people called all the time, or visited his web room, just to save walking a couple of blocks. But he’d never known anyone outside, so he’d never called out. His mind cascaded through green memories of news that individuals received from outside, passing comments his parents had made before he left for school. Maybe they didn’t want much contact with those outside the intunity.

“I guess they don’t know yet. I hadn’t actually told any of them.”

“Rustle.” Nina playfully shoved him in the shoulder. The removal of her hand from his knee was refreshing, cooling and white, even in the bright lights and chill of nerves. “Well, if anyone back home is listening, at least he’s telling you now.”

She smiled at the camera and then at him. “So you’re normal. Now you know, how does that make you feel?”

“Well, it was weird waking up to the mayor and a bunch of A-list bloggers this morning.”

Nina laughed and flashed quick teeth.“Have you done anything? Applied for student funds? Medical care?”

“Well, that’s taken care of here. Nutty, I mean Hershenstein University, gave up government funding so they could admit non-genotypicals this year.”

“Really?” Her interest traced purple and sarcasm around her. “That might make a whole other show, but tell me, how have you been feeling since you found out?”

“Well, you know why I found out?”

She shook her bald head like she really didn’t know. Rustle was completely unprepared for that, and a wave of indigo sorrow crashed down on him.

Nina laid the palm of her hand against his arm, her squared jaw and lack of smile implying she was ready to be serious now.

“Well, we’d both had the SFO flu, and then, then Katrina had some drug interaction or OD’ed or something, and she died.” Rustle realized he was crying and shaking a bit. Could he have been drugged or was he really this out of control? His leaf greenness resonated, like this sudden emotion was natural. He wiped the tears sideways off his face and tried to finish what he was saying, but the words were two meters wide and filled his mouth. “The police took me in for questioning, and her father, who works in prevention management, wanted them to keep me.”

“Oh, you poor thing.” Nina was beside him, arm around his shoulders, other hand reaching out to take one of his. Her voice carried a gray of caring, but a pirate voice in his head said she was trying to make him more emotional, playing his affect like a master. But his pain poured out, and tears flowed whether she was pulling the strings or not.

“Were you in love with Katrina?”

“I don’t know, probably not. But it was so soon. Maybe I thought I could have been?”

“And they accused you of killing her?”

“Yes, maybe, they never really said it.”

“And that was when they ran your DNA? While you were heartbroken?”

“Well, yeah, I guess.”

He recovered enough to realize this was all being broadcast and to wonder how he looked. Innocent, at least, but stupid? Was his blubbering childish or sensitive? He wiped his cheeks again and managed to stop. Nina kept him talking for quite a while, but Rustle felt himself barricading in, just a slight tense nervousness as he discussed his loss and his experiences in the police station.

“That was strong,” Nina told him as soon as they were off air. “I hadn’t expected that angle at all, but once you got going, you had quite an effective presence.”

“Thanks, I think,” he said as the spider assistant removed something, the mic, from his shirt.

“Well, let us know if anything else exciting happens. My card is in the packet I beamed you. You’ll get your first pay by the end of the day, and probably replay percentage for a while. We’re listing replay under several threads; see what pans out. But remember, you’ll get more if you don’t talk to anyone else.” Then she leaned in conspiratorially. “Besides, the word ‘exclusive’ keeps the vultures away.”

Rustle made it back to his room, no interference from vultures, just a couple of off looks from students. Bill’s door was open across the hall, and he nodded as Rustle walked by. Rustle kept going. He locked his door and lay on his own bed with his chill hands pressed against his face.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Chapter 13**

_USA Now                                                       Saturday, Oct. 8, 2072_

_Are Genotypicals Geno-Intolerant?_

_By Nanette Lowe, Now Correspondent_

_“Sure some of my friends are gene freaks,” says Tim, a student at Hershenstein University, the first university to give up federal funds to allow admission of non-genotypicals. But when I ask how his “friends” feel about the term “gene freaks” he says, “They don’t care, and what else can I call them, non-genotypicals?”_

_Next I ask three students from intunities how they feel about being called “gene freaks” and receive the following answers: “bad,” “like they can’t see me as a person,” and “no worse than being called non-genotypical.” Perhaps Tim is slightly wrong and our language is slightly biased._

_The common thinking is that listed genetics are known to cause problems: medical, mental, or social. The rest of us can’t be expected to pay more for medical care and education to include people like THAT._

_But what about Rustle Andoin, a young man raised in a synesthetic intunity who never left home until college? He seems perplexed when a genotypical interviewer can’t remember ever hearing bells when she smelled cookies or seeing certain words as green. A fine example of problems society shouldn’t have to handle, you might say. But it turns out, Rustle is genotypical._

_Spending a day at Hershenstein, there’s no way to tell who’s genotypical or not. A few, like the dwarfs, are easy to spot, but some don’t know themselves. To be admitted here, all students meet requirements higher than the federal college entitlement standard. And for groups like the synesthetes, there has never been evidence of increased medical or other costs to society._

_So why are non-genotypical students denied education benefits if they meet all the other requirements? Could it be that even beyond the words we use, our society is biased against “gene freaks”? Why else would the government withdraw benefits from all because some students at a school aren’t genotypical or choose not to be tested? Is an education including tolerance something we can’t afford or something we can’t afford to prevent?_

 

Saturday morning, Rustle knew there was a rummage sale in the quad even before he scanned the campus news. First, there had been large, official-looking banners on some kind of plastic laminate hung strategically everywhere he walked. Then came the cardboard or paper signs, slapped up by clubs and “student organizations” until they practically hid certain walls, posts, or even trees.

Rustle hadn’t been inclined to join anything when he arrived, but there was a peculiar draw to seeing what junk such groups would sell. The whole idea of a rummage sale was attractively bizarre to Rustle. His intunity had never done anything like this, and it gave him a light pink buzz.

Entering the quad just after ten Rustle saw rows of tables or blankets or just lines of stuff along the ground.

The garden club was predictably selling potted plants. But most groups were selling assorted used stuff: books, knickknacks, and small electronics. The chemistry club was there in lab coats selling snow cones in disposable beakers. And nearby, the computer club was selling pieces of computers and phones that they had partially disassembled on the spot.

That’s where he saw her, removing the ID chip from a phone. He pulled out his own phone, checked the picture and info he’d marked for Shauna Casian, the other student from Marie’s intunity. Red-blond curls, full cheeks and lips, it was like he’d been watching for her.

He walked up to her and said, “You learn that in the club?”

She laughed, “I think I learned this in grade school. You looking for parts?”

“No, just curious. I’m Rustle, by the way.”

“Sure, I know from that _On the Spot_ show. I’m Shauna. Sorry about your girlfriend.”

“Thanks.” This was weird. He turned and started to leave.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to make things awkward. What were you curious about?”

“Where you learned that.” She’d stripped the phone to component parts while chatting with him.

“Big Basin Divergent Thinking Intunity. Good schools, lots of tech.”

“I met someone else from there, Marie? After she explained some math to me, well, I was out of my league.” He hoped he sounded casual as he kept his eyes fixed on phone parts.

“Oh, Marie. We’re not all like that.” Her curls bobbed as she shook her head, the sweet scent could have been from his mind or her shampoo.

“Like what?”

“Oh, you know.”

“No, I’m curious.” Her gaze seemed to fix on him, but with just a fraction of the intensity Marie had shown that first day on the roof.

 “Well, I wouldn’t want anyone to judge us all by her,” Shauna said. “Seeing many sides of a problem can be a genetic asset, but sometimes it goes too far. Some people care too much, are too sure they know what’s best.”

“You think she’s too full of herself?” He conjured plum amusement to hide the black wisps lingering in his head.

“I don’t mean it like that. She’s smart, but she doesn’t always work well with others. You can’t get far in biology if no one wants you to share a lab. I haven’t talked to her since she took up math. It might suit her better, the sort of ‘loner solves intractable problems’ gestalt. You know?”

“Don’t you ever feel the rest of us should be learning from you? After all, you’re doing stuff with this club that you did in grade school.”

“The club’s just for fun, to meet different people. Everyone here has their own special talents and learned different parts though different channels.”

“And you don’t ever wish you could give them yours?”

Shauna frowned for the first time. “Marie’s not involved in the virus inquiry, is she?”

“No, I don’t think so. Why?”

“Oh nothing, just a rep she had back home, but nothing like that.”

“What rep?”

“Oh, nothing bad. My mind just jumped from your story to her to—but it was silly of me.”

Shauna shook her curls again, so unlike Marie in her mannerisms. Rustle flashed on how he’d weeded the adjectives from his speech patterns. Was Shauna hiding her own web of association behind a light shrug of the shoulders? Or was Rustle transmitting his dark thoughts without meaning to? He said goodbye and wandered on.

Near what might be the beginning of the first row, or the end of the last as Rustle was traversing it, sat a fluffy orange muppet head with a fan like the comb on a cassowary. Whatever kid-vid icon it represented, new, old, or never aired, Rustle hadn’t a clue. But when it opened its mouth a steady _taa_ sound came out. When the mouth closed, it became a muffled _taw_. Rustle needed only a moment to conclude the audio was a steady _taaaaaaaaa taaaaaaaaa taaaaaaaaa_ which the mechanical opening and closing of the mouth/airway converted to _taa aw aa aw at aw aa aw aa aw aa taw aa aw aa aw aa aw_. But the effect was curiously satisfying, the feel of dough squishing between his fingers, and the creature was bright orange, the undimmed color of his childhood happiness. He could use some orange right now.

The fuzzy head sat on a butcher-paper-lined table with a sign hanging in front that said, “SAMAD – Students Against Mind Altering Drugs.” Rustle figured they could use all the help they could get. “How much for the head?”

“The Lopey?” a green-eyed girl in a brick-red jacket asked.

“I guess,” Rustle answered, pointing at the furry orange noise maker.

“Ten-fifty.”

Rustle thought it was a strange price. Why not say ten or even $9.99? He wondered if there were rules in play he didn’t know, but he’d been credited ten thousand from _On the Spot_ , so he paid and took the Lopey home.

 

Back in his room, he immediately switched the audio on the Lopey to a radio feed, hoping to hear talk shows arbitrarily muffled and spit out by the oblivious, moving orange mouth. The first station he tried had news, not a talk show, but the news was about SFO flu, so he lay back on his bed to listen.

“. . .GENetic alTERAtions AND corrESPONDing NEURAL acTIVity NOW seem TO be SEParate FROM fluLIKE sympTOMS common IN the Us and AMONG freQUENT travELERS.”

Rustle started out basking in the bizarre effect he’d created, but as he got more caught up in the news, he ceased to notice the Lopey’s changes in volume and clarity.

“As the virus is tracked through Asia and Australia, it becomes clear that more isolated populations experience no noticeable symptoms. Only antibody tests can determine who’s infected. Initial findings suggest genetic changes are just as rapid, but protein production proceeds at a merely natural pace. Long term brain alterations, especially in parvocellular systems, are still apparent, and have been confirmed by multiple labs and techniques. Most researchers believe the virus, left to run its course, will affect the same changes over some months that in initial samples occurred in days.

“Non-American researchers,” Rustle noticed for the first time that the reporter had a British accent, “also report isolating a second virus in American and other populations that experience flulike symptoms. As suggested earlier by threat groups and terrorist watch groups, this second virus appears to be an immunity or detection trigger, possibly designed to stop engineered viruses or trigger symptoms that would warn of such infections. The silence of US researchers suggests that a double ban, on discussing the second virus or discussing the ban on discussion, is once again in place in America.”

It was everything Marie had said, spouting from the radio through a fuzzy orange talking head. Rustle’s mind crackled at how much Marie had figured out, and how good she must be at neuroscience, even as she declined to officially study it. He thought back to his conversation with Shauna. Was she hiding her own suspicions?

“The International Terrorist Threat Analysis Committee, in which the US still declines to participate, has issued a statement that if any United States governmental agency is behind either virus, it behooves them to disclose their part so that research may proceed as quickly as possible. The report suggests biological mechanisms that may have been intended to fight off engineered viruses are instead triggering heightened protein production, causing rapid and possibly irreversible alterations in brain structures and thought processes. While many recovered victims claim their thinking has improved due to the virus, others are seeking medical redress and counseling, especially where the changes were rapid and involved illness.

“To date, fourteen deaths are attributed to direct complications from the combination of viruses. Deaths include suicides, drug interactions, and accidents during hallucinations…”

At some point Rustle realized he was no longer listening. A sports report was on, and he was still thinking about viruses. How lucky he’d been to recover on his own. He’d even enjoyed some of his “hallucinations,” if that’s what they wanted to call them. But what about Katrina and the thirteen others who’d died? And what about those wanting the changes reversed or needing counseling to deal with their new thought processes?

Rustle might like the changes for himself, and maybe his brain hadn’t been so different to begin with. Maybe he had a natural advantage in dealing with hallucinations. But where did anyone get off releasing viruses like that? One may have been created by terrorists and one by the government. Both may have thought they were doing everyone a favor. But what jerks.

And then, over the fireball of Rustle’s outrage, wove a branching leaf-green net. It surrounded and bound his red annoyance like the latitude and longitude lines on a globe. The red inside throbbed like magma barely contained, as Rustle traced each link through thoughts of Marie.

Marie had told him from the first that she and her intunity were gifted at neuroscience, inferred or studied. She’d spoken kindly of viruses and harshly of ethics boards. She’d known she was immune the first day he was sick, and she’d explained the viruses involved days before the popular press. Vague shadows of Marie implying she’d done horrible things, saying she was dangerous, crowded his mind. How could he not have seen it? But even with his new green net weaving fully into place and clearly into mind, Rustle knew he couldn’t prove anything. He was sure of it for himself, wasn’t he? But his thinking slipped between the places where he could think in words.

He felt hot red trying to escape as he blamed Marie, and the government, for Katrina’s death. And there were other deaths, and the violation of everyone involved, like some gigantic rape, messing with people’s bodies, their DNA, without permission. Wasn’t that rape?

Rustle let the fury build inside him as he assumed his calmest telephone voice and asked Marie if she could stop by.

 

Waiting for Marie, Rustle pictured her as a monster, something mud-colored and slithering, that could bite and devour the unwary. How could she have been in her lab, carrying on as usual, when she knew people were dying, when she knew even one person had died? And how had he been so blind?

She knocked, and he got up and opened the door. She was practically bouncing, happier than he’d seen her in weeks, or maybe ever. How could she?

“I’ve figured out a bit about synesthesia. You know, it’s been pretty much ignored since it was listed. Even your people in the intunities haven’t released any research.”

“Why would they?” he asked bitterly, glad there wasn’t more information about his people for terrorists like her to exploit.

She stopped at the edge in his voice. “Curiosity? Don’t you want to know what I figured out?”

He nodded, lavender threads sounding through the rumble in his head, not sure whether he was playing a part or really couldn’t bear not knowing.

“You see, the government defined synesthesia as having near variants of three segments when they listed it as genetically undesirable. It was stupid, even for the science of the time, which was all I had to start with.” She smiled, but he knew she might be setting him up. Hadn’t she carried on as his friend even knowing she’d infected him? She must have known. He held on to his anger. Her explanation slowed, but she continued.

“So, they banned people who expressed certain variants of the three most common factors. But about half the people considered by researchers to be synesthetic didn’t fit that definition. Especially people called ‘color-mood’ synesthetic. It sounds a lot like what you describe with colors around people or rooms and—”

“I know, we still use the term. Is that all?”

“Well, no, but if you don’t want to hear it—”

“Go ahead.” She looked miffed, but he was jaggedly glad. He wouldn’t feel bad about hurting her. She deserved to hurt, and more. He closed the door and leaned against it, keeping them both standing just inside.

“It turns out probably half of your intunity would test as genotypical now, at least on the synesthesia definition, due to the way the initial variants were defined. But there are at least three other segments, noted before and better understood in other contexts now, that could trigger neural effects similar to the listed synesthetic segments. And you have one of those variations. So while your synesthesia may be as real as most, you still qualify for medical and educational benefits, and so would much of your community.”

He felt her pushing her enthusiasm on him like a bribe. Just as Katrina had used drugs, Marie was pretending to research his people as a favor, but what did she really want? It wasn’t seduction, though she was partially succeeding at that. Even as he painted her with lavender-tinged brown, she rippled in erotic black, like some particularly dangerous snake. He remembered her words last time, about them both being attracted to dangerous people. He remembered how she’d shooed him away, and his earlier insight that genetic tampering was akin to rape. Maybe the most fitting punishment would be to force her down on the bed.

Even as the thought spun red and black around him, he bathed in indigo shame and knew he couldn’t let that happen, even if it was the only punishment harsh enough. But the indigo damped away his rage and left him seduced, intentionally or not, wanting to reach out to Marie. He tried to hate her.

She must have seen something in his face. She took one step back and asked, “So, if that doesn’t do it for you, what did you call about?”

He forced himself to speak, tightening a trip line with each word. “I built something in the closet. You have to go in and shut the door to see it.”

Her brow wrinkled, her weight shifting as if to back up. He stepped away instead, moving farther from both her and the closet. “Just go in for a second and close the door. As soon as your eyes adjust, you’ll see it.”

Her eyebrows were still lowered, but she shifted forward and took the closet door by the handle. He felt her pulse out black like the beating of the telltale heart. She gave a meek half smile, and shut herself in.

Rustle triggered a cell phone jammer on his computer, lifted his desk chair to wedge it below the door handle, and sat down facing the blocked door.

“Rustle, it isn’t working.”

“Yes. It is.” He surged red with adrenaline again. The dangerous she was trapped, and he was the victorious hunter today. The door handle twitched and twisted. There was a long pause.

“Rustle, what’s going on?” He didn’t answer, just kept his full weight on the chair braced against the door.

A pause, then the handle turned and she thudded against the door. It didn’t budge, and that made Rustle grin.

“Rustle, tell me what’s going on, or I’ll scream so that the whole dorm can hear me.” She sounded scared. He liked it, the whole black-and-brown snake image stank at him through the door and pulsed at him like shockwaves. Still, he didn’t want her screaming, didn’t want anyone else involved until he had answers.

“I heard a radio show on the SFO virus. It smelled like the questions in my mind after a conversation changes topics.”

“Did you always smell such thoughts?”

“No, but it feels right now.” A fern-shaped search and theory formed in his mind before the words were even out. Whatever had changed in his mind, all his senses tied into it. Like the sizzling sensation in the lab, his thoughts could connect directly to his sensory crossovers.

“So when did ‘now’ start?” This wasn’t where he’d pictured the conversation going, but he could hop back on track and ride it.

“You want to know if it started with the illness? Or was it before that? Did you infect me that first day on the roof?” He remembered the strange effect of the Mem-u-solve on his synesthesia, and the lack of extra imagery with Tasty. “That day in the steam tunnels, when I told you Tasty had cut out my synesthesia for the first time, did that have something to do with your virus? Did you know about the drug interactions even then? Could you have told me something that would have saved Katrina?”

That piece hadn’t hit him consciously before, and he winced at the thought’s impact.

“Rustle, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but I’m not sure you’re making sense. Why don’t you let me out of here, and we can talk about whatever’s bothering you.”

He thought of the times her explanations hadn’t quite made sense to him. But now everything seemed to fit together. “Yeah, right. At the very least you’d run away. Or would you kill me?”

“Me, kill you? What’s going on, Rustle?”

“You killed Katrina. Or is it not the same when you let a microbe do your dirty work? You told me enough to figure it out. If you’re as good as you say you are, you must have known every step my thoughts would take. Why did you lead me to this? Did you think I’d take your side, or were you hoping I’d stop you when you couldn’t stop yourself?”

“Murder? Trust me, no neuroscientist alive, divergent thinker or not, could trace your thoughts step by step. They’ve been saying for a century that we’ll soon have personal neural maps, be able to scan a person’s brain and then run a perfect simulation on a computer, but there’s always some technical problem. Instead, we have a heap of ill-considered genetics legislation and a fear of the very research that might help.”

Her voice sounded too normal, or worse, like someone talking to an unstable friend. Could he be wrong? But the green net seemed so perfect. He tried to see it now, but it drooped as the red ball of anger it surrounded cooled and dimmed and shrank.

“You’re changing the subject, aren’t you?” He shifted on his chair and leaned his head against the closet door. He felt her presence through the hollow wood and paint, a soothing gray like his cooling anger, but somewhere in him, his reasoning demanded proof. “If the virus spread out from SFO, you must have gone there before I met you. On your way here, maybe?”

There was only silence from the closet, maybe a slight shuffling sound near the ground. Was she sitting down in there? Was she plotting to escape?

“Did you release something airborne or did you use yourself as an infected carrier? Or did you infect yourself when you released it? I don’t know much about viruses, but it has to be something like that, doesn’t it?”

There was silence again, but he thought he heard sniffling. Was he breaking through to the guilt of a murderer or just scaring someone who used to be his friend?

He waited, imagining how Marie wiped her face, then buried it against her knees, letting each sound from the closet paint what might be realistic pictures in his mind. Had his brain become good at this? Or was he deluding himself? Was he becoming like the murderer in his closet?

Finally she said, “What did this news program say that got you thinking like this?”

“Nothing much. It told me what you already had, about there being two different viruses here. It told me fourteen people had died, that they know of.” He cursed himself for being so easily led away from his intended topic. “While I was listening, one of those leaf-green nets formed. It formed a perfect sphere around something growing inside me, and lots of things you’ve done and said were in that net. They all suggest you built the virus, the one that alters genes and thinking.”

There was complete stillness in the closet.

“Don’t you know it’s wrong, Marie? No one has the right to decide for other people like that.”

When her voice came through, there was a scrape to it, not tears, but something pained. “Are you sure you know what’s right and wrong? Am I wrong that you almost raped me the week before you got sick? Is it right for you to lock me in this closet while you play these little mind games? What if I knew you didn’t want the answers to your questions? Would it be right or wrong not to tell you then?”

Rustle realized he might not fully want the truth, but he was at least trying to do the right thing.

“It’s not right to kill people. If I know that you’ve killed people, the right thing has to be to hand you over to the authorities.”

“Has to be? Where’s your internal logic for that?” The voice was much more like the normal Marie, and she was going to give him a lecture.

“Even if I had made the gene-altering virus, no one died of it alone. People don’t even notice its effect on its own. If the government made a virus that interacted poorly, making basically harmless viruses painful and possibly deadly, wouldn’t the government be responsible for the deaths? Would those be the right authorities to hand me to?”

He wanted to accept her reasoning and let her out of the closet. The situation seemed ridiculous even as he sensed a flaw in her arguments. And had there been a tentative admission in there or just a hypothetical?

“What if law enforcement was handled by some completely separate part of the government, completely different people than those who released the other virus?” Rustle asked.

“If there were a government that divided, I’d worry that no one was keeping track or taking responsibility. But I doubt it’s worth spending energy on that possibility. If you handed any branch of the government the people responsible for that gene-altering virus, the government scientists who made the pseudo-immune virus would welcome them with open arms. The government might even threaten to hurt people they cared about if your would-be diversifiers didn’t cave in and work for them.”

The brownness of what she said reverberated through his nets, but it fit, adding to the complexity of his understanding. “So the responsible thing to do is to not get caught. Is that what you meant when you said it? And diversifier? You’d call a terrorist a diversifier?” He tried to ignore and black connection as she began to speak.

“Terrorists cause terror. When was the last time you felt terror? How about in your dream about the emperor’s new clothes and the boy who didn’t exist? If it’s terrible to kill people, isn’t it terrible to plan a whole people out of existence? One side takes the diversity out. One side forces it back in. It might be the best thing someone could do to leave little time bombs of viruses in biological reservoirs all over the world. Let something trigger their release randomly in the future, just in case governments force people too far from their natural diversity. Would making a plan to reintroduce diversity that currently exists really be worse than letting people die because, as a country or a species, they can’t see the possibilities that might save them?”

His vision was darkened by both brown and black. “So maybe no one has the right to act.”

“Maybe not, but we all do it, every day. Use what you’ve got as well as you can or not. You’re either responsible for what you do or what you don’t prevent.”

He hadn’t prevented Katrina from doing whatever killed her, and that made him partly responsible, along with whoever made the two viruses. “And if you’re responsible for making viruses and I let you keep going or give you to the government for whatever they choose, then I’m responsible either way.”

“And if you kill me, you’re responsible for what doesn’t happen.”

“I wouldn’t kill you,” he answered, before he realized, “I said something like that to you at the beginning. Didn’t I? Am I being a fool?”

“No.”

The answer sat, like a rock in his lap, and it was cold, but also comforting, gray and solid.

“What was going on before, Marie—You knew I was interested in you. Was I really that deluded? Or were you interested in me, at least sometimes?”

“Interested isn’t the same as yes.”

“I know.” He felt loudly indigo, wanting some sort of reassurance from a woman he had trapped in a closet.

“You know as well as anything that I was interested sometimes, but wouldn’t it have been worse being here now if things had gone any further?”

Rustle wasn’t at all sure of that, but he knew what she meant. He was pretty tempted to get into the closet with her now, even if he never figured out the whole game she was playing. Maybe he did like playing with fire. “If you could foresee this, you really would be some kind of genius.”

“If I could foresee diddly, would I be trapped inside this closet?”

There was a long pause while Rustle considered letting her out. He’d just about decided when someone pounded on the door.

_Thump! Thump! Thump!_ “Homeland Security! Open up!”

He pulled the chair away from the closet with the very motion that brought him to his feet. He knew she could hear in there. He knew she was just as surely trapped as before, if he decided to hand her over. What had brought Homeland Security to his room?

One large step, and he opened the bedroom door.

“Yes?” he said, wide-eyed as any school boy without having to think.

The men outside in suits flashed badges and said, “Come with us. We have questions you need to answer.”

And he went, without so much as a glance toward the closet.


	2. Part Two

#### Chapter 14

 

_Far from the Tree                                Saturday, Oct. 8, 2072_

_Where is Rustle Andoin?_

_By Tim Id Not, Tree Correspondent_

_Why are you reading this?_

_Whether these are words on your phone, a computer screen, or paper, there must be some reason you’re reading and passing them through your brain. Did you want to hear something shocking? If I suggest the guys in suits who hauled away Rustle Andoin this morning might work for Homeland Security, would that keep your attention for a few more paragraphs?_

_How many of you even know Rustle Andoin? Is he a friend or someone you saw on a talk show or read about in the news? Nina looked pretty friendly with her hand on his knee after she kicked the students out of Chomsky common room, but do we need people like that to tell us about ourselves?_

_Maybe sometimes we do. After all, I might be majoring in journalism for a reason. But what are we going to do when all the outsiders go home?_

_Yeah, we’ll party, sleep, and sometimes study, but in the few minutes left over, is there something to be gained from our time at Nutty U?_

_I asked a friend who grew up in an intunity—he says I can call him an intunite—I asked why he wanted to come to school with a bunch of non-intunites like us. After saying, “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” he told me he “wanted to meet some different people.”_

_I figured maybe the admissions office and that more-or-less-anonymous donor might be onto something after all. So over pizza and each of our beverages or drugs of choice, a group of us came up with a list of projects to fill the occasional extra minutes in our days._

  1. _Start an endowment to keep Nutty U open to everyone indefinitely._
  2. _Use media interest here to publicize a letter-writing campaign asking Congress to change the law so students can use their government education money at integrated universities._
  3. _Sell a pin-up calendar of naked first years with the challenge: spot the intunites. (Okay, that one was mostly to keep you reading, but an intunite did suggest it.)_
  4. _Create a vid class where students make documentaries or whatever about each of the communities (including intunities) we come from. Maybe host a film festival. (Maybe put proceeds toward the endowment.)_



_We came up with a couple dozen more, but I have to save something for future articles. In the meantime, ask the next guy in a suit you see, “Where’s my federal funding? And where is Rustle Andoin?”_            

 

The second round of questions, once they finally let him eat, seemed about the same as the first. Sergeant Quinton, a horse-faced baritone who had been with him from the start, asked, "How did you become involved with the Genetic Survival Project?"

Whatever Rustle had expected when Homeland Security took him from his room, it had not been boredom. But here he was, in a pale blue room, with a white-and-blue-tile floor and recessed lighting, going through questions that were only interesting because they seemed so misguided. No one had asked anything about Marie. Then again, there could be a whole other conspiracy about which he knew nothing. At the moment, he didn’t even care.      

“I’ve already told you everything.”

“Then tell me again.”

“Okay. Katrina and I heard some music.” The music in his mind was not what he had heard then, but rather some flute piece, something from _Peter and the Wolf_? Which animal was the flute in _Peter and the Wolf_? “We followed it over by the library to where there was a dance. We danced. She dosed me with Tasty III she had in lip gloss. The Krishna people dragged us into some kind of line dance, and we ended up talking with Brother Lysine.”

The sergeant was turning a rosy plum and Rustle wondered why; maybe because he wasn’t interrupting so much this time around. There was a sound, like salted French fries, that Rustle had never heard before. His upbringing taught that he should focus on it, draw the most from his experience, but he also needed to keep telling his story so the Sergeant wouldn’t feel obliged to prompt him. Some of the prompting earlier had been less than gentle, though nothing that would leave any marks.

The officer guarding the door shifted and clouded in black, which was usually erotic in Rustle’s mind. Past-their-prime, burly, pig-nosed Feds were definitely not his type, but his mouth managed to patter out the conversation with Brother Lysine about speakers for the next dance even as his mind ran with out-of-place colors.

“Did Brother Lysine tell you anything about the Genetic Survival Project?”

“No. We never talked about it, then or later.” His own voice sounded brown and fuzzy, which was just wrong.

“Did he say anything about viruses or plans to change people?” Rustle felt himself go rigid. That question glowed the pure bright orange Rustle remembered from childhood, the color he’d hoped to recapture ever since. But this was a lie. His mind was betraying him, betraying that orange. A net of practical concerns and ethical suspicions formed around him. It was a startling hot pink, but the pieces were clearer than ever before.

“You drugged me.” Rustle was surprised, but surrounded by incongruous gray. “To get me to tell the truth? But I already was.”

Quinton was either surprised or did a good imitation. His mouth opened and closed for just a moment, then he looked down his nose at Rustle and asked, “Did anyone with the Genetic Survival Project tell you any of their plans or say anything about a virus?”

Rustle watched the room shift to yellow and hoped his new thinking could find a pattern in his off-sync synesthesia. But the two together had shown him he was drugged. Would Marie have guessed that? Was he in love with her? Could he accept whatever she’d done? Either way, he wasn’t about to explain it to these people. Right now, they were looking worse by comparison. He’d wait and reconsider his worldview later.

“No one there told me anything. I built a tower to put speakers on, and the guys helping me barely spoke. I didn’t even know the name of their organization until some cops came to question us afterward. Maybe we were clueless pawns.” He wanted to say, _But whatever killed Katrina, I had nothing to do with it._ Somehow those words slipped hot pepper red up his nose, making him sneeze. They didn’t care here; and anyway, even if not for the reasons they thought, maybe he did bear some responsibility.

Hot pink strings led him to wonder why he was talking so much, if that was part of the drug. But he seemed to have control when he cared. He answered, but he could limit the words. Would that change? Was this shifting of his sensorium just the start, and was it permanent?

“Can I assume you checked this drug for interactions with that virus at least? Or do you not care if you kill me?” A sandy spark flew by. “You know, I’m scheduled for another talk show tonight. They’d have nothing to talk about but why I didn’t show up.” Where had that come from?

A creamy feeling overwhelmed his vision, and Rustle thought he might be sick from the disorientation. Should he tell them? Would threatening to be sick shorten the interrogation? His hot pink strings favored the media angle. Rustle fought to keep his lunch.

The sergeant asked him, “Did you ever speak with Rob-O about the Genetic Survival Project?”

“No. I barely even know Rob-O.”

“What about Tim Id Not?”

“I think I’ve seen the name someplace, but I can’t place it.” As his mouth stopped talking, he remembered that someone using that name wrote for the school paper. Had they thought that was his media lifeline? Should he mention Nina? Surely they knew about that interview, but maybe Tim had written something new. Had people noticed when Rustle was escorted from his room? Had someone notified the school paper? A soft crooning in citrus yellow spread across the room.

“Who do you talk politics with?”

“No one, or maybe everyone. It’s sort of like discussing the weather at Nutty U.” His mind went on to think of Marie and Bill, but whatever was making him talk seemed satisfied with the number of words he’d spoken.

“Give me names.” The sergeant stood and leaned across the table.

Rustle listed the names of his professors, first names if he knew them, starting with his history prof. She seemed like the sort of lecturer who might enjoy an audience with Homeland Security.

The conversation continued with detached plum overtones, and Rustle gave simplistic answers to every misguided question.

 

By the time the suit types returned him to campus, a couple blocks off from his dorm, Rustle’s mind was almost devoid of imagery. Whether or not his threat about the talk show had made any difference, he was relieved to be back just after dark on the same day as he’d left. He walked up the steps of Chomsky Hall under dull yellow glow lights, his feet slapping loudly, a realistic sound against the stone.

As he passed through the common room, he glanced at the table of geeks in front of the bulletin board, all present and accounted for. They were decorating cookies tonight, and Rustle’s mind spun out all sorts of possibilities, guessing activities or clubs that might need fancy cookies. What did that group do when away from their table? Did Rustle see them as geeks because they sat with books at a table rather than phones by a fire? Their clothing was mostly tee shirts and pants. They had no visible pseudo-genetic couture, no crazy neurosci hats. They looked just like him, except they were sitting with friends decorating cookies, and at best his closest living friend had just evaded capture. At worst… He couldn’t figure out whether capture or whatever else Marie might be involved with would be worse.

Rustle forced himself to continue up the stairs and along the hall to his room.

He turned the knob, cold in his hand, and opened the unlocked door, then closed and locked it behind him. His desk chair was still over to one side, where he’d left it. The closet door remained closed. Slowly, he turned that knob and looked inside. Shoes and laundry scattered on the floor were not as he had left them. They’d been pushed to the back, as if someone had huddled up front, beside the door, but there was no one there now, no note, no clear indication.

Rustle resisted the urge to call. He’d wait a couple days and check, but he didn’t expect an answer then or now. There was, however, one phone call he needed to make.

He rummaged through his phone for the e-card attached to his contract and dialed: “Hi, this is Rustle Andoin. I wanted to let Nina know that I’ve got a great idea for her next show.”

 

It was easy for Rustle to set up another visit with _On the Spot_. A school news article titled “Where is Rustle Andoin?” had wormed its way through the nets before Rustle even returned. A royalty check from his previous interview had auto-deposited in his account. Nina and the crew would be ready to go by eight.

Rustle thought maybe he should eat, but a light pink haze clouded his mind. He realized, letting out a long breath, that it was just the right shade for the uncertainty he felt. He unlocked his door and went across the hall to knock on Bill’s.

The door opened to show Bill running six fingers through his hair, and behind him a room covered with more open textbooks and scattered notes than Rustle could imagine anyone needing. “Hey,” Bill smiled, “you exist.”

“Yeah. Have you eaten dinner yet?”

“Aren’t you about to be swarmed by either the press or the police?”

“The press are scheduled for eight, actually, and I think the authorities are done with me for the moment.”

Bill tilted his head as if unsure of Rustle’s sanity. “You know that if you go anyplace public, you’re going to get mobbed.”

“Oh.” Rustle shrugged. In his chill pink mist, he hadn’t thought of that. “I have to eat.”

“We could get pizza delivered.”

“Sure. Great.” Rustle glanced again at the mess of school books. “Were you in the middle of something?”

Bill glanced back at his room and smiled. “Just midterms, essays. I like spreading out work I can touch. But I can stop for food. Come on in. If we order pizza to my room, it might not come with a reporter.”

Bill motioned Rustle to the only chair and gathered his study materials, in careful layers of open books and crisscrossed sets of papers, to uncover the bed. Then he set the layers on the desk like a giant schoolwork lasagna. The pink fuzz around Rustle’s head dissolved to a powdery white as he pivoted side to side on Bill’s desk chair.

“Veggie, meat, fungus?”

“Whatever.”

Bill tapped a couple keys on his phone and sat back on the bed. “So, did you come to tell a story, or to avoid thinking about one?”

“Really, I think I want your advice. I need to plan what to say for _On the Spot_.”

Bill tucked his chin and looked at Rustle with big eyes for a moment. “I’m honored, I think. But why me?”

“You live across the hall.” Even as Rustle said it, he saw the steps that had brought him to Bill. Maybe there hadn’t been a glowing green net helping him put it all together, but somewhere between that first greeting in the hall, the vague political talk in front of history, and their last discussion about divergent thinkers, a path had been laid that led to Bill’s door. “You seem to know stuff and maybe have connections?”

Bill shook his head. “You’d be amazed by the ‘connections’ on this campus. That’s probably what kept you from being swallowed by the system long since. You realize that another guy in your situation might never have come back from the police station the first time? And do you know how many interests were calling for your release today? I don’t know if your intunity is adamantly apolitical or playing some deeper game, but everyone else on the net has asked after you. I assume you really were detained by someone?”

“Homeland Security.” Rustle pulled out his phone and searched his own name, limiting his search to just that day. His hits topped six figures. “Wow, the receptionist at _On the Spot_ didn’t mention that.”

“You already agreed to a price?”

Rustle nodded.

Bill shrugged. “It’s not a bad maneuver, sticking with _On the Spot_. They’re pretty lightweight, no fixed political agenda. It suits your innocent image. If it was really Homeland Security that took you today, they pretty much secured your place as the poster child for abused genetic minorities.”

Rustle started to feel brown in the back of his throat, and Bill said, “Look, I’m not trying to insult you. I guess I should be sympathetic to whatever you’ve been through. What did you want to talk to me about?”

“You say, ‘if it was really Homeland Security’?”

“There were reports that you were taken by people with Homeland Security identifiers. Of course, the government denies it, and it could all have been a staged stunt to make the authorities look bad.”

Rustle started to object, but Bill raised a hand. “I gather, already, that you believe you were taken by Homeland Security, but do you have any proof?”

“Sergeant Quinton showed me his ID. The recognition is stored in my phone and I’d recognize his face.”

“Did you take a photo?”

Rustle shook his head, wondering if he’d been foolish or if they would have wiped his phone. The ID confirmation was stored automatically.

Bill pulled himself up to the edge of the bed and bit his lips. “Can you draw him?”

Rustle shrugged, and Bill crossed to his closet in two steps and produced a drawing pad from an impressively organized closet storage system.

Rustle started sketching and was almost done by the time mechanical knocking sounded at the door.

Bill motioned for Rustle to move where he’d be hidden by the open door, and Rustle silently obliged. He heard music building like a lead-in to a scary moment in a horror movie but figured that was just imagination and not synesthesia. Still, Rustle caught himself holding his breath as Bill opened the door, but there was just a beep and a whir as Bill paid the bot and took the pizza. Then the door shut, and Rustle felt a cold wash of ridiculousness.

He sat down to finish his sketch, then set it on the bed next to Bill as he grabbed some pizza. His stomach growled audibly in anticipation.

“Not bad. If this actually looks like the guy,” Bill said, picking up the sketch. “I’d say you had a future as a police artist, except, I think that line is closed to you now. You should show that on the news when you tell your story, which you haven’t told me yet, by the way.”

Rustle told Bill everything as they devoured what had originally seemed like a very large pizza. Through the whole telling, he wondered if some group could have set it all up to make the government look bad. It would be reassuring to believe he _didn’t_ live in a country where college kids were abducted and drugged at the whim of government officials. It might even be comforting to believe his government had better leads than to blame the Krishnas who ran the dance and some stupid kid who built them a speaker tower. But then the government might know about Marie. They might have set up some fringe group to kidnap him and impersonate Homeland Security while they went after Marie, who they might have known was in his room.

“Was anyone else in my room while I was gone?”

“Sorry, I couldn’t say. I was mostly holed up in here. Security footage of the hall might show it, but not if the government got to it first. Let’s work on the premise that the government was at least involved with whatever happened.”

Rustle felt a line of green click, as if that seemed right. “I set up a check-in system with _On the Spot_ , so someone would know if I disappeared and wasn’t being allowed to communicate.”

“Right. You might want to set other backups. I could be one. Just come down the hall whistling, and I’ll poke my head out the door to see if it’s you. Once we’ve spotted each other, we’re done for the day. If we don’t intersect by midnight, we need to make an effort to both be here then, and you can knock on my door at that point if you need to. It’ll help protect both of us.”

“Are you worried?”

“Who isn’t?”

“Are you part of some group?”

Bill raised his eyebrows and tilted his head to the side. “You are either the most naive guy on campus or a scary good actor.”

Rustle opened his mouth to protest, but Bill silenced him by holding up a flat palm and those six eye-catching fingers. “I don’t mean to insult you. You’ve got it made as a poster child and may do more good than any organization out there. Let’s assume that most new students this year are either part of ‘some group’ or tied to someone’s agenda. It’s probably safest if you just don’t worry about it. You’re too hot to touch right now, and no one you’d want to work with would try to recruit you.”

“Why? If I’m some kind of poster child, wouldn’t they want to influence what I say?”

“Perhaps. I didn’t say no one would want to use you. But you’re going to be watched. Anything you did or knew about a group’s plans might well be reported. You may be bugged right now, you know?”

Rustle started patting down his clothing.

“Whatever. Just assume anything you say or do is on the record. That’s sort of your deal with _On the Spot_ anyway, isn’t it? Assume anything said to you is also on the record.”

“Are you assuming that?”

Bill nodded, and Rustle realized Bill must have been thinking that since he took him in. He’d said pizza was less likely to come with a reporter here, but he hadn’t said anything overtly political. He hadn’t said much at all.

“Are we safe?”

“News at eight, right?”

The whiteness around Rustle fluffed up and fuzzed.

“You should set up redundancies to take action if you disappear again. If the government can fake your check-in, then you’re not protected from them.”

“So if I’m going to post something online to say I’m safe, there’d have to be some sort of code words involved? It feels like a kid’s game.”

“Kids’ games prepare us for life. Make it clear in your interview that you’ve set up multiple safeties, but never tell anyone, anywhere, how many there are, and don’t rely too much on technology. There’s a comp sci course on computer security and encryption you might want to take. Meanwhile, I bet the school newspaper office would be happy if you promised to drop by in person each day. In person has got to be the hardest to fake.”

“You don’t think this is a little paranoid?”

“Are you telling the truth about what happened today?”

Rustle didn’t know what showed on his face, but Bill shook his head and looked away. “No wonder _On the Spot_ wants you back.”

 

By eight Rustle was in the common room with the same spidery woman touching up his hair as before. This time, he could almost believe he was in control, so long as he pressed his hands against his thighs to keep them from shaking. Then he heard a shout.

“Rustle! It’s Bill. Tell them to let me through. I have to tell you something before you go on.”

Rustle looked toward the voice but couldn’t see Bill behind the security blocking the door. He turned the other way and said to Nina, “Please, Bill wouldn’t say that if he didn’t mean it.”

Nina closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them with a smile. “Whatever you want. Just remember, we’re on in two minutes, and you signed a contract.”

Bill rushed to him in the red of a lion’s roar. There was something in his face that was distinctly not Bill. It was terrifying. Right in front of the make-up woman and Nina he blurted out, “Never trust anyone. Not even me. They can threaten our families. Say it on TV, and we’ll all be safer.”

He turned and headed back out of the room. The red he’d brought with him burned Rustle’s face. “Wait! What happened?”

But he was gone.

The spider woman patted powder on his forehead and nose.

Nina jerked her head toward the door and said to no one in particular, “Watch him, for his own safety.” Two big guys in black shirts left, and two very similar ones filled their places by the door. “I don’t suppose we had that on camera?” Nina asked.

The camera woman nodded.

Nina said, “See if we can get a contract,” and there was more shuffling by the door.

Rustle felt a physical jerk, as if he’d jumped up to speed. The make-up person folded her kit, and Rustle wondered if Bill might have planned to get a deal out of that. His gut told him no, but the red around him now made it hard to think. He imagined folding it back, trying to focus on what he needed to say. He was glad Nina had spoken of Bill’s safety first and getting a contract second.

Then Nina was right next to him again, looking at the camera and saying, “I’m Nina, and we’re _On the Spot_ again with Rustle Andoin. Rustle, is there something you want to tell us about today?”

Rustle took a deep breath, looking at the camera and wondering if people saw whatever Bill had seen earlier. He wanted people to listen. This time he was barely aware of Nina. “Today, a friend told me I was naive, and I guess he was right. He just came back, right now, looking really scared, and told me to never trust anyone again, not even him, because _they_ could threaten people’s families. I’m saying this first because I hope it will keep him, his family, my family, and anyone else connected to me safe. I guess it also means that after today, if I take back any of what I’m about to tell you, you’ll have to wonder why. This might be my only chance to get the truth out, so here it is.”

He glanced at Nina, and she nodded solemnly. Rustle felt the burning ease, to be replaced by something much colder, like a belly full of ice. “This morning I was abducted from my dorm room. _On the Spot_ is now posting a drawing I made and my phone’s ID confirmation of a man introduced to me as Sergeant Quinton of Homeland Security. Maybe someone less naive than me will find out otherwise, but I believe he really works for our government. If so, our government abducted and drugged me today to question me about a group of Krishnas who may be involved in who knows what, but at least they never attacked or drugged me.”

Nina leaned in even closer, so she was pressed up beside him, and said, “Rustle, tell us what happened, from the beginning.”

It was what he wanted, what the story needed. When Nina showed interest, Rustle remembered more clearly, and he knew that must show in how he spoke.

He spoke until his throat was dry.

By the end, he knew for the first time what “put through the wringer” meant. He felt like he’d been rolled between two hard cylinders, leaving him flat and damp, but he hoped that what had come out might make a difference. Nina was all kindness on camera, more like a big sister than the flirt she’d been last time. She told the audience at the end that _On the Spot_ was setting up security measures so they’d know if Rustle was taken again.

Rustle straightened up and added, “And I’ve learned. I’ve set up other ways to check in with people as well. Maybe everyone needs a check in system, one where no one knows all the parts except you. Especially if you’re different, or if you say things that might make you a target, take care of yourself. If our own government might be as dangerous as terrorists, then our greatest safety comes from watching out for each other, for all kinds of each other.”

Nina let it end there. Once the room filled with multiple conversations, she gave Rustle a long look. “You’ve changed. In just three days, you seem a lot harder.”

“Is that bad?”

Nina shrugged. “We cover the news. What’s happened has happened. But I think this will make you safer, and it should get good play. We’ll keep up our end of the security arrangement, but make sure you check in like you’re supposed to. We don’t have time for false alarms.”

Nina paused as some message buzzed on her earring phone.

“Your friend, Bill, doesn’t want a contract. We’ll let him be. He’s not as clean as you anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

Nina smiled. “Stay out of trouble for a while, or I’ll think you’re doing it just to see me.” She patted his cheek, and a brown taste passed right through.

A couple of the bodyguards saw Rustle to his room, and he locked the door behind him. Then he wrapped himself in blankets and sat in the dark, remarkably free of colors.

 

 

 

 

 

 

#### Chapter 15

 

_USA Now                                           Sunday, Oct. 9, 2072_

_Abductions and Building Closures Raise Questions_

_By Francesca Wu, Now Correspondent_

_The American Civil Liberties Union filed a request this morning, under the Freedom of Information Act, demanding the release of information about a government-developed virus, searches of two university buildings, and detention of two or more US citizens in relation to the SFO flu outbreak._

_Homeland Security has so far refused to comment on whether they were involved in removing Rustle Andoin from Hershenstein University yesterday. This California college student became a flash celebrity last Wednesday after he was accidentally informed that he was genotypical. He has no known connection to the Sandori Biology Building on the Hershenstein campus, which was cordoned off at 2:43 this morning by people identified by university administration as Homeland Security._

_Nearly simultaneous footage from the University of California at Berkeley showed men with Homeland Security badges escorting Dr. Richard Lu off campus. They then closed the Berkeley Genetics and Plant Biology Building at 2:52 AM. Dr. Lu had reportedly not spoken for over 48 hours, and many suggested this was a political statement concerning some unknown government order. Lu and other Berkeley researchers were working with SFO flu virus samples. The Genetic Freedom Institute has issued a statement of concern that the building closure and Dr. Lu’s detention could impede life-saving research._

_Homeland Security has so far refused to issue any statement regarding these actions or the ACLU’s request._

_USA Now polls show 82% of those surveyed believe that Homeland Security will eventually confirm that they were behind the detention of Rustle Andoin and Dr. Richard Lu. Only 31% currently claim to support the department in “all or most of its actions.”_

 

           

Rustle slept until eleven the next morning, but he checked news before daring to leave his room. His brain filled with noisy red clanging at what was left out of an article in _USA Now_. Was he worried by what he’d noticed was missing, or was he worried about why he’d noticed it? He pulled on a red shirt while his thoughts boiled.

The article began by mentioning an ACLU request for information on a government developed virus, two buildings, and two people. One of the people was him. One of the buildings held the lab where he’d visited Marie. The other person and building were from Berkeley and were clearly identified in the article. The SFO virus was mentioned only in passing, and the lack of any further detail on the “government-developed virus” was what captured Rustle’s attention. He suspected the author had meant it to. He also knew he’d have missed that detail a week ago.

A tangle of green questions unraveled in his mind. Had his thought processes been altered by viruses in a way that made him notice such things more? If so, had that been the intent of those designing at least one of the viruses? Perhaps two brushes with the government and various hints about a double gag rule made him justifiably more suspicious. He wondered how many other students at Hershenstein already this suspicious, and how naïve he’d really been.

Rustle knew at once that Bill would catch an omission like that. He remembered worrying about Bill as he fell asleep, and having the urge to rush to Bill’s room. He’d squashed the impulse with a sizzling sound. His mind shifted to worrying about Marie. According to the news, the building where he’d visited her had been closed and presumably searched last night. Was the government investigating Marie? Had they known about her yesterday when they came to his room but then questioned him about others to throw him off the track? He wanted to try calling Marie with a purple and black intensity that bordered on obsession, but he didn’t dare. If they’d intentionally questioned him about everyone but her, they’d be waiting for him to make contact. Were they tapping his phone? A rush of teal assured Rustle that they were, however the other pieces fit.

The best thing he could do for others was to keep his distance.

A sizzling brown surrounded him, and he sat like bacon in a pan. Hopeless. He decided he felt hopeless. The sizzling brown faded, and he thought back to Bill saying that Rustle’s synesthetic intunity seemed apolitical, that they were one of the few groups not calling for his release. Rustle pulled up a blank spread sheet on his phone and started to list all the groups that had commented on his situation. Many of the intunities represented at Hershenstein had issued statements. Rustle searched the student directory and listed names coming from each one. Then he sorted the student body by previous school and started looking for intunities that hadn’t commented.

Partway through, he stopped to use the bathroom. He looked out into the hall and saw nothing unusual. Still, he locked his door behind him as he left. Then, on his way back, he tried whistling. “Yankee Doodle” was all he could think of, and he didn’t do it very well. Bill didn’t look out from his door. No one else did either. Rustle realized it was the middle of the day and most of his dorm mates were probably at lunch or out enjoying themselves. He went to his room and turned the blinds to let in warm, bright sunlight. Then he sat back down and continued charting intunites, intunities, and posted reactions to his abduction.

By mid-afternoon, Rustle had filled three screens of spreadsheet with dense notes. It was true that his intunity had posted nothing, but about half the others represented on campus were silent as well. Of course, Rustle wasn’t from any of those other intunities.

He decided to write to his mom. Even if someone spied on his communications, writing to her wouldn’t seem abnormal. Then he thought about what he’d write and realized any of his typical messages could seem suspicious. What would Homeland Security read into reassurances like “Float warm and green”?

In the end he copied both his parents: “Mom and Dad, Just wanted to tell you I’m okay. Love, Rustle.”

It wasn’t much, but anything else they could read on the news, if they wanted to know. Then he heard someone whistling in the hall and rushed to open his door.

He saw Bill, just entering his room across the hall.

Rustle started to step out, started to open his mouth—

Bill gave the slightest shake of his head, and stepped the rest of the way into his own room, closing the door behind him.

Rustle froze for a moment and then closed his door, too. Chill indigo flushed his face, but then a fuzzy gray crept through and he felt himself smiling. Maybe Bill didn’t think they should talk or get together, but he’d come in whistling, which meant he was all right. For the moment, that was reassurance enough.

Rustle picked up his phone and searched the school catalog for the course on computer security and encryption that Bill had mentioned. He also sent his daily confirmation code to _On the Spot_.

 

Monday morning was warm but windy. Half the people Rustle passed on his way across campus seemed to nod or wave at him. Each acknowledgement made the world a little more purple, and soon even the wind blew warm and purple in his face. Rustle didn’t stop to talk to anyone. He resisted the urge to check his royalty payments. There were two errands he wanted to run.

A campus map led him to the basement of the student services center. The only other time he’d been down there was when he’d joined Marie in the tunnels. Part of him wanted to walk by the storage room where they’d started that escapade. Without her key, though, he couldn’t enter the tunnels, couldn’t search for the mural or the poetry room. He wanted to go back, to relive the moment when he’d bumped against her in the tight tunnels and felt her body electrify his. He’d been on Xtreme at the time and totally out of his sensorium, but his body still remembered the sensation.

He allowed himself to walk by the storage room, but he didn’t stop.

Instead, he searched out the open door of the campus newspaper, _Far from the Tree_. The rear wall of the room was bright blue, with a huge walnut tree painted on top, covering the wall in leaf by leaf detail. Two side walls were lined with old computers. Then Rustle realized they weren’t that old. They just had big screens, which were probably useful for designing a newspaper, even if most people were going to read it on tiny phones or foldout screens. The middle of the room was carpeted and contained a coffee table loaded with various foods, including donuts and chips. Around the table were half a dozen comfortable-looking chairs, none of which matched. The chairs held three people, two females and one male, who had been eating and talking until Rustle stepped in.

There was a sudden hush and then a slightly paunchy sleepy-looking guy with long wavy hair stood up and said, “Why if it isn’t Rustle Andoin! Glad to have you back.” He held out his right hand, the one not holding a donut, and Rustle walked forward to shake it. “I’m Tim Brody, also known as Tim Id Not. This is Caitlyn, and Sasha.”

Sasha nodded, but Caitlyn jumped up to shake Rustle’s hand, and he smelled cinnamon and heard bells. It turned out the bells at least were real, tiny ornaments dangling from her ears, bouncing as her hair bounced. “I loved your spot with Nina yesterday. Hope your friend’s okay.”

“Thanks. I think he’s fine.”

“Here, have a donut.” Caitlyn handed him a fairly fresh, and therefore slightly sticky, glazed donut, and they all sat down.

“So Rustle, what brings you to our newsroom?” Tim asked.

Rustle looked around, not having thought of the place as a ‘news’ room before. He imagined news crackling in the comfy chairs or in the air over their heads. “Well, honestly, a friend advised me to set up various ways to check in each day, so someone would know for sure if I disappeared.” He wondered if Caitlyn would guess that this was the same friend he’d mentioned on the show last night. Then he realized that Bill was probably the only friend he had right now, and he hadn’t even thought of him as a friend until the previous day. He felt a little brown around the edges.

“So you want to check in with the newspaper?” Tim asked.

“Yeah, probably in person so it can’t be faked.”

“Does _On the Spot_ still have exclusive rights—“

“Tim! Get over yourself,” Caitlyn cut in. She leaned toward Rustle. “I think you’re smart to give them exclusive rights for now, otherwise you’d have all sorts of annoying people,” she glanced pointedly at Tim, “bugging you all the time. Now what were you hoping we’d do?” Her hair bounced against her shoulder, which was covered by tight yellow cloth.

“Well, if there’s a certain time when the same person is always here, that would be simplest. I could just stop by. We could have some code phrase if you want to know everything is all right, but mostly I wanted someone to know if I disappeared against my will.”

Caitlyn nodded very seriously through the whole explanation, but Tim managed to answer first. “The three of us are here pretty much every morning.”

“He shouldn’t have to come here. It’s so conspicuous,” Caitlyn said. “I could stop by your room each morning.” She smiled at him, and Rustle couldn’t help but feel flattered.

“Right. We all see why his room would be much less conspicuous. How ’bout this, Rustle.” Tim spread his large hand in front of him, donut free. “Why don’t you come by here between eight and ten Monday through Friday. Saturday you can come by, but we’re not as reliable for who’s around then. Sunday, come to our IntuNight. It’s the group I mentioned in my article that’s coming up with ways to change attitudes toward intunites.”

“You can’t quote him. It’ll breech his agreement with Nina,” Caitlyn spoke quickly.

“I won’t attribute any quotes to him, but he should be in the group.”

“Better draw than free pizza?” Caitlyn jibed.

“Everyone likes free pizza. You’ll join us for pizza and IntuNight, won’t you Rustle? Its 7 PM on Sundays, right here.”

Sasha, who hadn’t moved or seemed particularly attentive before, sat forward and her surprising low, sultry voice filled the room. “They’ll send someone to infiltrate or bust up the group if he joins.”

Tim sat forward then and faced Sasha to respond. Black crackled around them like this was a private debate, and everything seemed to slow down. “The group is staying completely above board. The meetings are publicly announced. There’s nothing to infiltrate.”

“People can pretend to be something they’re not and push their own agendas.” Sasha spoke in the same low tone, but she sat back as she finished, as if the argument was already conceded.

Tim shrugged. “They can anyway, and even rumors that Rustle’s there will bring people in.”

Tim was still focusing his words and his attention on Sasha, who sat silently again, looking off to one side. The room seemed unusually quiet, but Rustle told himself that was just his own discomfort from walking into these people’s lives without invitation. A light pink fell across his vision in confirmation.

Caitlyn piped in, “I could still come by your room on Sunday mornings, if that’s all right. Is there a time you’re always there?”

Rustle tried to think about his Sunday schedule. He tried to imagine seeing this bouncy woman at his door and wondered if she was actually going to hit on him. He decided he could fix his schedule a bit to see what happened. “Ten to ten-thirty?”

“Great!” Caitlyn smiled. “I know your room number already, from working on the last article.”

Rustle wondered if the last article referred to the one by Tim or something he hadn’t yet read. He’d remember to search later. Whatever he’d just stumbled into, it had diverted him from other thoughts for a few minutes at least. He licked his fingers, realizing he’d finished the donut without even noticing. Then without wiping his fingers on his pants, he stood up saying, “Well, thanks.”

 

His next errand took him to the computer science building, but the prof he wanted to see wasn’t in until afternoon, so he came back during office hours and knocked.

“Come in!”

Rustle opened the door. “Are you Dr. Joe Salla?”

“Yes, can I help you?”

Rustle came in and shut the door behind him. “I hope so. You see, I know it’s officially past add day, but is there some way I could join or audit your class on computer security and cryptography?”

“Please, sit down.”

The prof looked at him oddly, almost the way Marie had when she guessed his background and what he should major in. For a moment Rustle’s vision flashed red and he wanted to leave, but instead, he sat. The prof across from him was younger than he’d expected, with dark smooth hair and an olive complexion. Rustle didn’t know why he felt so frightened, especially once the man stopped looking him over so intently.

“Do you have the prerequisites?”

“I have the math, from high school. But I haven’t had any computer classes here, so I’m not sure how I’d compare. It said something about ‘teacher’s discretion’ in the course guide.”

“So you’re not a comp sci or math major. What’s your sudden interest in this class?”

“I’m Rustle Andoin.” He paused, then said, “I think I may have been a bit naive in the past and would like to understand how phones and other devices can be made more secure.”

“For your own personal use?”

“Yes, sir, but I’m thinking of studying robotics as well, and I thought it might help with that.”

“Robotics?”

Rustle nodded.

The prof sat back in his chair and crossed one leg over his knee. “You can call me Joe, everyone else does. I don’t allow anyone to audit my classes, and I think you’ve missed too much to take the class for a grade this semester. However, I do know who you are, Rustle, and if you’ll put in the time to catch up on all the reading you’ve missed, I’ll sign you up pass/fail. Mind you, you’ll have to work hard to even pass with all you’ve missed. Is this something you seriously want to do?”

Rustle nodded and couldn’t keep from smiling.

“Fine. Send in an add request today and you’ll be sent the reading. I expect you to be up to speed by the end of next week. We have a project due.”

“Thanks, uh, Joe.” Rustle felt a wash of teal as he nodded and smiled. He let himself out of the office and filed the add request electronically while making his way out of the building. He sent his daily message to _On the Spot_ , then, as he reached his dorm room, he whistled in the hall. Bill opened his door a crack, then closed it. Everything seemed to be okay for a second day. Rustle collapsed on his bed with a puff of gray.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

#### Chapter 16

 

_San Francisco Chronicle                     Friday, Oct. 14, 2072_

_Dwarfs and Divergents Delisted in Surprise Supreme Court Decision_

_By Sharice Cosby, Chronicle Correspondent_

_The US Supreme Court ruled today that two classes listed for genetic prevention and federal benefit exclusion should be delisted. The two classes are commonly referred to as dwarfs and divergent thinkers, and both run powerful intunities in California and other states._

_Jexsemeny Jenescence, a junior attorney in this historic legal case, has become a national symbol of the fight for genetic rights. Ms. Jenescence stands barely a meter tall, and was raised in a dwarf intunity, but today she said, “My height makes no difference in the courtroom, and now it needn’t make a difference anywhere else.”_

_Under today’s ruling, dwarfs and divergent thinkers will receive full federal educational and medical benefits. Parents will still have the option of excluding these genetics in their children, but they will not be required to do so in order to receive free pre- and postnatal care._

_The two parties in this action, whose petitions were merged for the Supreme Court case, have very different histories. Dwarfs were among the first groups targeted by government-sponsored genetic testing in 2033. Aside from the inconveniences of short stature, several medical conditions and a slightly shorter-than-average life expectancy are associated with dwarfism. Dwarf intunities were among the first models for near self-sufficiency and specialty manufacturing in a genetically determined community._

_The divergent thinkers, originally called disordered thinkers, were one of the last groups listed, in 2049. Although they followed the intunity model for self-segregation, this group’s main income has come from contract work as programmers and scientists. They have challenged the research surrounding their exclusion from the start and have exceeded genotypical norms for IQ and longevity, although their relatively high socio-economic status may account for part of that margin. They have been represented in court, appealing their status for over twenty years._

_There are currently nineteen separate, listed groups with petitions filed in US courts. Today’s Supreme Court decision could increase the chances for many of these groups to be delisted._

 

           

Walking home from his last class of the week, Rustle read a message from his mom that said, “With warmth and whistles. Love, Mom.”

He sat in the garden by the broken-down windmill to read the article that was attached. It was about dwarfs and divergent thinkers being delisted, and Rustle didn’t know what to make of it. Even without leaving the Hershenstein campus, he knew that most people were pretty anti-intunite at present. There were plenty of blogs and opinion pieces blaming them for everything from SFO flu to the flagging economy. He hadn’t particularly followed the news about the latest Supreme Court case, but he thought it would have received more attention if anyone thought intunites had a chance of winning.

He tried to summon a green net in his mind but was surrounded by soft pink fuzz instead. He began to wander the paths in the garden, kicking bits of gravel or leaves where they were available.

If the government thought a divergent thinker had helped develop SFO flu, they certainly wouldn’t delist them now, would they? Then again, the courts were supposed to function independently. Even Rustle had trouble believing that.

Then he realized, Marie was just one divergent thinker. Hadn’t she implied that her mother and other divergent thinkers contracted for the government? Hadn’t she suggested that if she were handed over to the government they could use her family connections to force her to work for them? Hadn’t she said her mom was bound by the double gag rule?

Flutters of green dispersed the pink as he walked through a section of rock garden. If Marie knew a surprising amount about the government’s work on viruses, maybe that was because her mother helped design them. If Marie’s mother or other divergent thinkers were influencing the political process from inside, that might explain the sudden Supreme Court reversal. It seemed possible that Marie’s mother or someone like her might be the only person who could stop the spread of, or maybe even fix the alterations made by, SFO flu. Rustle hated the idea that anyone would use that for leverage, but he saw the possibility as clearly as the rocks by his feet.

He kicked a pebble and a new shimmer of green made him wonder if divergent thinkers working for the government had enough evidence to expose the government’s part in SFO flu. Rustle had no idea how such politicking worked, but the idea tingled across his skin with electric appeal. What if other divergent thinkers had developed the government virus? That seemed bad, but if it led to lots of non-genotypicals getting their full rights back, that would be a good outcome at least. Marie might even have done whatever it was she had done partly out of a sense of familial responsibility. She might have been trying to put things right.

Rustle didn’t want to rationalize away the terror and deaths caused by any of the groups playing with viruses, but the little green flickers were falling into a pattern, if not exactly a web, in his mind. One branch stabbed like an icicle when he realized Marie’s mom might have sold out her own daughter in exchange for that court decision, but that line of the green web was weak and tenuous at best.

Then there was the note from his mother. The actual message didn’t say much, aside from being more coherent than most of what she sent him. But why had she attached that particular news article? There was no way she could know he’d made friends with a divergent thinker or that he suspected their involvement in SFO flu. It was big news, but by that reasoning, she’d have to know he’d see it anyway, and she hadn’t even commented when he’d been pretty big news himself.

He searched the web to see if synesthetes were among the nineteen groups currently petitioning in court. They were, which surprised Rustle a bit. He’d never heard anything about that at home, but something told him there was a whole level of adult discourse he’d missed. He wasn’t sure why his intunity hadn’t commented on his abduction or why his parents didn’t ask him about it directly, but some part of the green that wove through his thoughts said his mother knew more than he’d thought. Maybe she just didn’t consider his phone or web accounts to be secure. He wondered if she had gone back home or was still in San Francisco. Would anyone want him to come home if she wasn’t there?

While he was searching, Rustle decided to scan through the Nutty U student directory. He started at the beginning of the alphabet, just glancing at who attended a public high school. He wanted to be sure he could say that was all he’d been looking for. So when he saw Marie Durran listed as “on leave,” he didn’t pause, just kept on reading though last names beginning with “D.” It wasn’t too hard to run a couple more intunity-related searches as his mind accepted the new information, which didn’t seem new or informative.

He hoped Marie was safe. He remembered the fury that had allowed him to trap her in a closet. But it was spent. His outrage had shifted from red to brown, and the brown rose hot and humid when he thought of his own government and of what other divergent thinkers had probably done for that government. His own intunity may even have caved to government pressure to not issue a statement. Rustle kicked up a spray of gravel, and went to bury himself in books.

By the end of Saturday, Rustle was far enough into the readings for his computer security class to know just how insecure his phone and web communications were. He dove deeper into note-taking and references and fell asleep that night considering options for encrypting his messages.

 

He woke to rapid knocking at his door and the smell of cinnamon. He tasted cinnamon donuts, something he’d never actually eaten, and realized it was Caitlyn knocking. If he wasn’t synesthetic, how could his mind do that? Then he remembered Marie’s explanation of synesthesia, how some segments were listed and some were not, and how looking at only the DNA sequence left out so many factors. With a jolt he realized he could be genotypical _and_ be synesthetic.

The knocking came again, and Rustle said, “One minute,” as he pulled on some pants. His cinnamon thoughts of Caitlyn drifted to tea and bastilla, and a moment’s awkwardness on the grass with Marie.

When he opened the door Caitlyn smiled and looked at his bare chest. “Good morning! Nice to see you’re here and well. Did I wake you? Should I come later next week? Do you want to go out for breakfast?”

Rustle glanced at the clock. It showed 10:15. He glanced at his desk, where the paper readings for computer security sat primly. Then he looked back at Caitlyn who wore a stretchy white top and a forest green skirt with tiny bells at the hem. He remembered hearing bells in her earrings when they’d first met, and wondered if she intentionally built sensory associations around herself.

He felt like celebrating the intunities’ win in court and his realization that he could still be synesthetic. He felt like going out to breakfast with someone who really rang with bells. With a flash of red, he worried about Marie but decided to ignore it for now. Picking out a metallic weave shirt, he said, “Sure.”

As he pulled on his shirt Caitlyn smiled at him, and he felt like a bell being struck.

 

That night, he met up with Caitlyn on his way to IntuNight. “Do you go to this every week?” Rustle asked.

“Let’s see. I went last Sunday, which was the first one, because Tim begged us all to go. So I guess this makes it every week for now.”

Rustle had searched articles in _Far from the Tree_ and seen that Caitlyn hadn’t written about him, only Tim had. Caitlyn didn’t seem to publish much, other than a few quizzes and celebrity news flashes. But since she’d said she already knew where he lived from work on an article, he’d wondered what her relationship was to Tim. He felt a prickling of pink as he said, “You and Tim seem to be pretty good friends.”

            Caitlyn looked sideways at him, and he felt burrs of black mixed with the pink. They’d gotten along well at breakfast, but he wasn’t sure if she was flirting with him or was just a naturally exuberant person. A calm green voice told him to wait and see. A browner melody said he was still lusting after Marie. But something purple and jingly just wanted to get things moving.

Caitlyn took his hand. “I like Tim the same way I like Sasha. They both have voracious minds and other passions, and I like being tangled up in both.”

“Both minds and passions?”

“Definitely. And sometimes both Tim and Sasha.”

She squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back. Then they were at the student center, and Rustle followed Caitlyn downstairs and into the newsroom.

Tonight it was packed with at least thirty people. All the chairs were full, and Caitlyn went to sit on the arm of Sasha’s beat-up recliner. Sasha’s complete lack of reaction to this crowding of her personal space reinforced what Caitlyn had told him.

A gangly man looming over Sasha was saying, “No one thought the dwarfs would make the first cut.”

A spiky-haired woman said, “Speak for yourself. They’ve been legal dynamite since the days of ADA.”

Then Tim barreled through the crowd saying, “Glad to see you, Rustle. Do you know Sal?”

Sal said, “Hello,” and shook Rustle’s hand. He was dressed in a long shirt that Rustle thought he knew a name for that was vaguely Indian, but Sal didn’t look Indian. He didn’t look Middle Eastern either, and there was something odd about his face or maybe his expression. Rustle was trying to figure out if any intunity he could think of might be relevant when Tim distracted him by talking again.

“Sal and I were just discussing the challenges for non-intunites who aren’t genotypical but don’t have an obvious group to stick up for them.”

“Most intunites,” Sal said, “grow up surrounded by people who are like them. They don’t have a clue how hard it is on the outside.”

“I’m trying to be less clueless,” Rustle said.

Sal shrugged. “Your intunity is pretty isolationist.”

“I guess. I noticed they didn’t put out any statement when I was missing. But I’m not sure if that’s isolationist or something else.”

“Their court briefing acts like they’re genetically superior, or something.”

“Really? I guess I should read it.”

“You could try. Are you considering law?”

“No, architecture.”

“Don’t bother then. It’s pretty dense legalese.”

At that point Tim shouted, “Hey everyone, let’s see if we can settle into seats on the floor or whatever.” The rumble of conversation barely diminished. _“Hey folks!”_ This time Tim shouted twice as loud and kept it short. “Grab pizza and quiet down.”

People seemed to collapse onto the carpet where they’d previously stood. A few leaned against their friends, the armchairs, or the walls. Rustle saw Benjamin, who’d ridden the bus with him the first day, slouching into a corner. He had on his VR gloves and typed on his virtual keyboard. This time he wore a video monocle over one eye and seemed even more out of touch as everyone else looked toward Tim or passed pizza boxes around.

Rustle settled at Tim’s feet and heard Tim’s voice as a band of energetic yellow snaking out through the room. “You all know why we’re here. Things are happening fast now, and all of us—genotypicals, intunites, or whatever other names we dream up for ourselves—we have the chance to shape history.”

“We want a revolution!” someone hidden in back cheered.

“I want a party!” a woman with a tattooed forehead yelled.

Tim chuckled and raised his hand. “Just remember, anything said here is public. Don’t say anything you don’t want repeated. Oh, and in case you haven’t noticed, we have our own local celebrity, Rustle Andoin, here tonight. Please respect his contract with _On the Spot_ and don’t quote him on anything.”

“Don’t quote _anyone_ without permission,” a sharp voice from the rear said.

“Thank you, Professor Shultz,” a dry voice replied, and Rustle wasn’t even sure if there was really a prof in the room or if the whole thing was part of a joke.

“Now would someone like to start with their take on this week’s events?”

Sal started. It turned out he was pre-law. He also seemed to have an exceptionally good memory given the length of his legalese quotes. Rustle tried to listen but kept thinking about computer security instead. He had a cool idea for the next week’s project.

 

That Friday, Rustle worked frantically until midnight writing up his first computer security project. He’d decided to analyze phone encryption techniques, and he needed to lay out his own ideal plan. The basic algorithms were easy to find and anyone could generate a key and have pretty good protection. What Rustle found hardest to work around was the risk from someone stealing his phone. If the wrong people got hold of that (he couldn’t help thinking of Homeland Security in that role), they could probably decrypt quite a bit. The standard solution would be for Rustle to type in a passcode each time he used his phone, but he worried he couldn’t remember anything that someone else couldn’t guess, or possibly video him typing. There were people who actually linked their security systems to their DNA, but all of the sampling systems were a bit involved for personal security. Also, having known Marie and knowing that the government had his genome on file now, he suspected someone with the right skill set could forge his DNA input. So for his paper he suggested retinal scan technology, using it only for personal security, and refusing to use retinal scan for any other purposes or records.

Meanwhile, buried within his research for class, Rustle was also investigating another technology. It was possible to have a hidden electronic passcode. If Rustle had a chip implanted in a ring that he always wore, he could set up his phone to only allow decryption when in contact with that ring. He could set it up to link with a “smart chip” somewhere else on his person, like the one in his student ID, but he’d learned that anything detectable at range was easier to copy. If the interface with the ring required physical contact, then the code could only be copied through physical contact. Rustle liked that idea.

At midnight he submitted his official paper, barely meeting the deadline. He wanted to research the chip and ring solution more, but he worried that his searches might be monitored. Now that the assignment was submitted, any further research he did would look suspicious, if anyone was watching. Rustle hoped he didn’t need to be quite so paranoid, but the challenge to outwit government or other snoops called to him. He wanted to be able to keep his searches private. He wanted his phone to be safe enough for Marie to call. He decided to start on the next week’s readings and was delighted to find they included robots.

 

That Sunday he woke before Caitlyn came. He had time to shave, brush his teeth, and dress. When she knocked, he was ready to ask her out again, but instead he opened the door to find her holding a large basket.

“Wow, you’re dressed and everything. I brought muffins and fruit thinking we might eat here this time.”

“Here? In my room?” Rustle stammered. He hadn’t cleaned his room. But he saw Caitlyn make big eyes and raise her eyebrows, so he said, “Sure, come on in,” and he quickly removed all he could from his desk.

Caitlyn set her basket there and unloaded muffins and rolls wrapped in paper napkins, and little foil packets of butter and jam. She’d also brought two oranges and two bananas. Rustle was pretty sure she’d swiped it all from the cafeteria somehow, but it looked much more homey spread across his desk on little islands of paper napkins.

He heard bells and looked to see if she was really wearing any. She wasn’t, not even dangly earrings with parts that might ring against each other. She wore tight jeans and a crinkly rust-colored peasant blouse with strings untied at the neck to let a “v” open fairly far down toward her breasts.

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

He pulled his eyes up to her face and said the most decent thing he could think of fast. “I hear bells when I see you, and I was checking whether you had any on your clothing this time.”

“None,” she said, but the small shake she gave her head sounded like a dozen tiny bells to him, and he couldn’t help staring at her.

“Do you still feel like you’re synesthetic?”

“I’m not sure I’m imagining bells because I’m synesthetic, but I still think I am synesthetic. I’m not sure the government’s definitions are all that relevant.”

“I like that,” she said and took his hand.

They were both standing by his desk with the food spread out before them. Rustle noticed that Caitlyn’s lipstick had some of the same rust tone as her shirt. He felt black static climb his arm from where she held his hand.

“Muffin?” she asked.

He nodded. She let go of his hand. They each picked up a muffin, and Rustle sat on his bed while Caitlyn sat on the desk chair, facing him.

“I dream about colors sometimes,” she said. “I’ve had whole dreams that were just some splotch of red rearranging itself like an abstract landscape and then morphing into something symmetric, sort of like a cubist butterfly. It keeps shifting and shifting, a kaleidoscope with moving mirrors. And it’s usually just one color, or maybe two.”

“Do the colors remind you of certain feelings or other senses?” Rustle leaned forward, feeling like he should be closer to Caitlyn for this conversation.

“Not really. I mean, I always want the colors, or want to see what they’re doing. And they’re pretty much always intense colors, like bright red or deep purple. It’s almost like I have an emotional connection to the color, but not with a specific emotion.”

Rustle wasn’t sure what exactly Caitlyn was describing. It didn’t sound like any synesthesia he’d known, but it made him want to experience dreams like that. It also brought back the black static he’d felt when Caitlyn touched him, but after his experiences with Katrina and Marie, he wasn’t sure how to react.

“Tell me more about your dreams,” he said. And he leaned close and listened as she talked, and they nibbled their muffins.

           

Shortly after Caitlyn left, Rustle heard whistling and peeked out his door to see Bill. There was a rush of yellow static as he closed the door. He felt that yellow static when he dropped by the newsroom weekday mornings or made his electronic check-in with _On the Spot_ and a couple other web groups. Just being alive and safe for one more day charged him up. He wondered how Bill felt and if they’d ever have a conversation or hang out together again, but that was up to Bill.

Rustle finally picked up his phone, which he’d left mute for Caitlyn’s visit. There was a message with an attachment from _On the Spot_. The text said:

“An article posted by Benjamin Lindel on October 16, 2072, may constitute a violation of your contract with _On the Spot_. Please contact…”

There was contact information for someone in their legal department and an attachment in what Sal at IntuNight would probably call legalese. There was also a link.

The link led to a video collage titled “Rustle Andoin and Others Seeking Clues.” The opening segment showed Rustle saying, “I’m trying to be less clueless.” Rustle was surprised by how bad he looked in the video. There were bags under his eyes and the stubble on his chin made him look scruffy rather than cool. Still, it was definitely him talking at the IntuNight last week. Was it possible that Benjamin hadn’t heard Tim talk about not quoting? More likely, he hadn’t thought this would count. Rustle watched the piece through, and it was a pretty low-effort attempt at art or philosophy or whatever. It could almost have been done as a homework assignment, except that it wasn’t posted on the school net and didn’t have a name attached.

Rustle figured the people at _On the Spot_ probably knew what they were talking about if they said Benjamin Lindel posted it. He thought Lindel was the last name of the Benjamin who arrived on the same bus way back in September. Rustle remembered seeing him at IntuNight. He was around campus a lot but always seemed so wrapped up in his virtual interface; maybe he hadn’t heard what Tim said.

Rustle lay back on his bed and tried to picture what a green web would show, but his mind was surprisingly calm and empty. No showers of color bombarded him. He wasn’t panicked about losing his royalties, mostly because he didn’t believe it would happen any more than he’d believed he’d become a celebrity in the first place. He was pretty sure they could only take his future proceeds anyway, and what he had already was enough to live on for a year or more. Still, it was strange to think some random person recording him could breech his contract. He tried to read the attachment again but decided the most reassuring part was the note. He fixated on “may constitute a violation.” The word “may” also implied it “may not.” Or so Rustle told himself. Maybe he’d ask one of the pre-law types tonight.

His thoughts drifted to Caitlyn, who’d left a banana and a napkin-wrapped muffin on his desk. A warm black blanket descended on him and he dozed for a while before tackling his homework.

 

That night in the cafeteria line, the person behind Rustle spoke his name. He turned to see Shauna, the only remaining divergent intunite at Nutty U. Her hair seemed longer and less curly than before, and she was wearing a tight black turtle neck that made her cheeks and lips look even fuller.

“Shauna, how are you? I don’t usually see you here.”

“I’m eating with a friend.” There was no one with her in line. She looked side to side and then said, “I was asked to tell you that our other friend, the one who left school, is okay, just out of contact for a while.”

Rustle flooded with a dark, spicy sense of Marie, and relief. “Have you seen her?”

“No, my parents told me. She thought you might be worried.”

“I was. Do you know anything else?”

“No.” She looked side to side again. They were nearing the front of the line, and he knew she wouldn’t want to sit with him.

“If I gave you a disk, with an encryption code for phone messages, would you be willing to give it to her?”

“No, sorry, Rustle. This is more than I want to be involved already, and I couldn’t get anything to her, not even a message. I’d rather we don’t even meet after this.”

Shauna tossed her hair, and just for a moment, Rustle eyes traced strands of pink and green. It reminded him of that first, unsuccessful conversation with Marie when he’d met her on the roof. He thought that in time he could come up with some way to contact her safely, and just in case the plan needed Shauna, he didn’t want to offend her now.

“Thanks for the news. I appreciate it.”

She shrugged and said, “Good luck.” Then she cut in front of him, quickly collected her food, and left the cafeteria.

He sat by himself to eat. A warm, dark reassurance spread along every nerve in his body. At some level, he had imagined Marie was captured or dead. But it was one of those feelings he couldn’t face up to until he knew it wasn’t so. Now he knew she was okay, and that she’d been concerned enough to send him a message. He wished she’d set up some further way to communicate. His mind expanded with black certainty as he imagined talking to her. How had he come to this from their conversation through a closet door? Was he even the same person he’d been then?

He left for IntuNight a little early, hoping to ask Tim about the video collage before Benjamin showed up, but Benjamin was already there, typing in a corner. Rustle waited until he could get Tim alone across the room.

“Tim, do you know Benjamin Lindel over there?”

“Yeah, he’s on the yearbook staff, why?”

Rustle tried to remember what a yearbook was and if he’d seen something about ordering one, but didn’t want to get sidetracked. Instead, he brought up the message from _On the Spot_ and handed his phone to Tim. Tim read through, taking his time, and then played the link.

“Well, I’ll have to talk to some pre-law about the details, but Benjamin’s easy enough to deal with. We just need some paper.”

Not knowing why, Rustle followed Tim to a supply cupboard and watched him pull out paper and pen. Tim wrote: “Benjamin, I need to talk with you.” Then he went over and set it on Benjamin’s lap, beneath the invisible keyboard on which he still typed.

After a few moments, Benjamin stopped typing and said, “Can I help you?” His gaze passed across Tim’s face, and then Rustle’s, before ending up back at where the virtual keyboard would be.

Tim replied in his normal voice but sounded a little more mechanical, like maybe he was spacing the words farther apart or more evenly. They dropped like fluorescent orange pennies into a well. “Benjamin, we need to leave Rustle Andoin’s name out of any reporting we do. It’s better for all of us in the long run.” Then he handed Benjamin Rustle’s phone, and Benjamin read through everything, even the legalese without looking away once.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Remove the video collage.” Tim’s words dripped out a calming gray.

“Can I read the original contract?”

Rustle took the phone from Benjamin’s hand and brought up the contract. He handed it back and watched as Benjamin read the whole thing without a pause. Then he held out the phone and said, “Without the name ‘Rustle Andoin’ the video should be okay. Rustle may speak, but then he isn’t quoted in it.”

Tim faced Rustle and with a shrug and no color to his words asked, “Will that do?”

“I don’t know.” Rustle took his phone back.

“We’ll ask legal.” Then Tim turned back to Benjamin, picking up his written note, and once more in tones of gray said, “That might work. Thanks.”

Benjamin adjusted his glasses, and dove back into his typing.

Then Tim called out in his usual loud voice, “Let’s get settled and get started!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

#### Chapter 17

 

_San Francisco Chronicle                     Friday, November 17, 2072_

_Investigation of Homeland Security Announced_

_By Jordan Walsh, Chronicle Staff Writer_

_White House spokesperson Don Daffle announced today that the administration of Homeland Security will undergo a complete audit and independent investigation with Congressional oversight. The audit will begin this week, and already Capitol Hill insiders are speculating as to who might be appointed if a new director is selected._

_The current director, Parker M. Bush, came under scrutiny this month when the virulent “SFO Flu” was exposed as two separate viruses, one released by the Department of Homeland Security with the stated intention of detecting and neutralizing engineered viruses._

_The virus released by Homeland Security may be linked to visual tracking disturbances in infants as well as rapid synaptic changes during times of immune suppression in all ages. It apparently amplifies reactions to several natural and engineered viruses and may introduce dangerous neural side effects. It may also allow viruses that would not normally affect germ cells to pass through and affect future generations._

_Debates about the efficacy and ethics of such government projects are ongoing. Many health and human rights organizations have called for strict regulation or a complete ban on future government virus releases. Analysts at the Center for Individual Freedoms have called for identification of Homeland Security detainees within 24 hours, stricter oversight of searches and arrests, an end to so called “double gag orders,” and written medical oversight for any drugs administered during interrogations._

 

When Rustle read that the Department of Homeland Security was under investigation, he wanted to feel happy, but instead he seemed submerged in dirty brown water. It pressed in on him from all sides. It clouded his vision and made every movement an effort. He doubted he would ever trust anyone or anything again.

It was Friday afternoon, and Rustle was trying to finish his second computer security project. This one was supposed to be about programming robots to be more tamperproof. Some of the serious computer science types were writing their own code or even designing their own robots. Rustle had to settle for just writing another paper, but he’d come up with what he thought would be a fun topic. He’d chosen to analyze the security of the dorm cleaning bots.

First he’d found manuals online and downloaded sample code. Then in a lucky turn, he’d found servicing directions that included a standard passcode to download a bot’s individual programming onto a flash drive. This was supposed to allow a technician to check for viruses if the bot’s owner had never changed the passcodes from the factory preset.

Of course, Rustle knew from his security readings that any responsible owner should change the passcode immediately upon purchase. But just in case dorm cleaning contractors weren’t that responsible, Rustle had visited the bot in the common room and tried the preset passcode.

The cleaning company should probably be fired. Rustle now had, buried in his dirty laundry, a flash drive containing all the individual settings and updates used for that bot. Even with his limited computer skills, he could reprogram it if he wanted. It might have been a fun prank.

Except that someone had already tampered with the bot. Rustle couldn’t be sure without a physical inspection, but he was almost certain there was a microphone hidden inside. His download didn’t actually include whatever programming had been inserted. That would require more than the basic passcode. But he’d found a setting to wake up the bot based on vibrations, vibrations that could be caused by people walking or talking in the common room. It didn’t make sense with any of the bot’s other programming. The cleaning bot was only supposed to come out of wall storage at certain pre-programmed times, in this case, every three hours. Maybe it would be convenient if something crashing to the floor or someone calling for “Clean up!” could summon the bot, but none of the other programming supported that. No other operations called on the port that could have been used to hook up a microphone, and yet, the setting for that port was enabled.

The evidence was circumstantial. Rustle couldn’t prove anything without the hidden piece of code or without looking for a microphone. But he knew he’d found exactly what a computer security specialist would look for. He’d done well, and he was pretty sure his prof would be impressed. Except, Rustle couldn’t shake a rough pink paranoia that raised the hair on his arms. He didn’t know who’d hacked the bot. Was it just another student? Someone from _On the Spot_? School staff? Homeland Security? If it was Homeland Security, would they change it back now that they were under investigation? Rustle doubted it.

He didn’t want to get either himself or his prof in trouble, so he’d typed up his report as if he’d just researched the security options for the correct type of cleaning bot. He’d printed up the sample code that was available online. Then he’d carefully written three pages by hand, working outside just in case his room was monitored. In those pages, he’d explained what he’d found, copying out the suspicious bits of code. He’d stapled those three pages in between his report and the sample code. Tonight at 11:30 he would hand it in. Joe had promised to be in his office until midnight for students who had projects that couldn’t be sent electronically. Rustle knew he expected robots and not paper at that hour, but it would have to do.

 

Rustle whistled in the hall on his way to dinner and on his way back, but Bill didn’t pop his door open to show he was home. Usually they’d managed to check in earlier than this, but Rustle didn’t mind. He’d made no plans for this Friday night, thinking he might need every last moment for his computer security project. So he stayed in his room catching up on other homework all evening, but never heard a single whistle.

He whistled on his way out at 11:30, with no response.

At the computer science building he tickled by light pink. He wondered if Professor Joe would tell campus security. What if they tried to blame him for the tampering he had found? What if Joe was under some double gag order from the government like Marie’s mother had been? It occurred to Rustle that few people would be better than a computer security teacher to sort out potential trouble makers for the government to watch.

Rustle wouldn’t have made it up to Joe’s office if a steady green line hadn’t run interference with the prodding pink. Rustle forced himself to march one foot in front of the other until he stood in Joe’s doorway. Joe glanced up from his papers, looking over a shoe box with a small bot that had been deposited in his “in” pile.

“My project,” Rustle said, holding out the papers.

“Computer troubles?” Joe asked, one side of his mouth curling into a smile.

“There were parts I had to hand draw,” Rustle said, and something in his tone removed the smile from Joe’s face.

“Okay. Thanks for bringing it in.”

Rustle nodded.

Joe nodded.

Rustle turned and hurried out of the building.

A steady pulse of pale green hurried Rustle home. It was getting chilly at night, and he hadn’t put on a sweater. He whistled in the hall without effect and soon found himself bouncing nervously on his bed. He wished the prof could read his paper right away and give him feedback. He wished he could sleep or do something useful, but he felt glowingly wide awake—and useless. He wished Bill would come home and suddenly decide to talk again, or at least come home so he wouldn’t have to worry about him.

At midnight he whistled on his way to the bathroom. When he whistled on his way back, someone down the hall opened a door and glared at him in a mussed hair, sleepy sort of way. Rustle decided it was time to knock on Bill’s door.

There was no response. Rustle went back to his own room and looked up Bill’s phone number. He’d never telephoned Bill before, and if Bill was out for a hot date, he probably wouldn’t appreciate the call now. Still, Rustle thought Bill would understand. They’d been checking in every day for weeks. What good was it if they didn’t follow up?

Rustle ended up leaving a voice message and a text.

He tapped the floor, very quietly with only his socks on, for another twenty minutes. By then, hot pink paranoia was pushing on him and pulsing through his head. He found contact information for Bill’s parents in the school directory, Lynnette and Gustav Ivanovich with a PO Box in San Francisco and two cell phone numbers. He typed, and then revised, what he hoped was a safe message:

I was supposed to meet Bill tonight about an urgent matter here at school. I’ve failed to find or contact him and thought you’d know if he’d left for the weekend. Could you please contact me as soon as possible? Thanks a lot, Rustle.

He’d hoped the urgency would come through without worrying Bill’s parents too much. But how much was too much?

Rustle wasn’t sure whether he was worrying too much or too little. He wanted to go outside and walk, but felt he had to stay in his room in case Bill returned. He didn’t want to be alone, but there was no one he wanted to call. If Marie was still around, he might have trusted her advice. Somehow, he’d come to trust her more and more as he’d come to trust the rest of the world less and less.

He wondered if he should call _On the Spot_. If something had happened, they’d have the resources to find out, and they still had the footage of Bill warning him before the last interview. Bill hadn’t wanted a contract, and Nina had implied something negative about Bill’s connections and background. Should Rustle have asked more while he had the chance?

There was also the question of Rustle’s contract with _On the Spot_. One of the pre-laws from IntuNight had helped Rustle draft a response and gotten a prof to check it. Benjamin had taken Rustle’s name out of the title, and it appeared he was right about not having to take his project offline. There hadn’t been any comment yet from _On the Spot_ as to whether everything was resolved, but since Rustle was still getting royalties for people downloading the last interview, he assumed all was okay.

In the end, Rustle decided not to call anyone else until morning. He wrote a note asking Bill to knock on his door and wake him whenever he got back. Then he knocked on Bill’s door once more before sliding the note under.

He went back to his own room but didn’t get much sleep.

 

The next morning, he stumbled into the campus newsroom earlier than usual. Tim and Sasha were huddled around a large computer screen with too many partially overlapping windows open. Caitlyn was nowhere to be seen, but that wasn’t particularly surprising on a Saturday.

“Hey, what’s up?” Rustle asked, wondering if some breaking news might be relevant to his own worries.

Sasha continued moving windows, but Tim spun his chair around. “Just recapping Homeland Security with a local twist, following up on what triggered the investigation.”

“Have you heard anything new?”

“New? About Homeland Security?”

Rustle dropped into a torn, pseudo-leather chair facing Tim. “I think someone in my dorm is missing, someone I’d been checking in with.”

Sasha didn’t twitch, but Tim leaned forward on his elbows and met Rustle’s gaze. “This friend, not the spontaneous travel or sudden infatuation type, I take it?”

Rustle shook his head. A dirty brown ring grew around him. “I don’t think he would have missed yesterday’s check-in unless something bad happened, but I don’t know what to do.”

“Are you trying to keep his name secret?”

“I just don’t know. When _On the Spot_ approached him, he didn’t want coverage, and they said something weird about his family too.”

“If you’re worried I won’t help if I can’t publish it, that’s all wrong. I like investigation even more that reporting. Can you tell me what was weird about his family?”

“I don’t know. I sent his parents a text last night. They haven’t responded.”

Tim pulled out his phone. “Name or not?”

“Bill Ivanovich. His home info is in the directory.”

Tim tapped through screens fast and then moved to a bigger screen next to Sasha.

“Want help?” Sasha asked, as if she’d been part of events all along.

“Sure.”

For a few minutes the room was silent except for their tapping and evolving rhythm in Rustle’s head. Tim and Sasha typed and clicked side by side as if it were a pair’s competition event.

Rustle couldn’t stand it. He looked for the box of donuts that usually graced the table, but there were none to be found. Both Bill and Sasha had insulated travel mugs over by the computers, but Rustle hadn’t bothered to bring anything. He checked his phone in case Bill’s parents had replied and instead found a note from his mother.

“I float in the eye of the vociferous storm and hear you floating above. Stay warm and close. Mom”

He wondered if the storm was supposed to be the Homeland Security audit or something in his mother’s own life. He wished he could understand her better but didn’t take the time to reply.

He got up to stand behind Tim’s chair. The screen was filled with missing persons reports from the last week. There were two names highlighted. Both of Bill’s parents had been reported missing just that morning, but were reported to have disappeared Thursday.

“Maybe he got called home,” Tim said.

Sasha said under her breath, “They’re reporters. I might even call them journalists.” She said the latter as if it were a much higher calling then the former. Rustle moved over behind her chair and saw her screen was full of articles, and all the bylines were for Lynn Anders or Gus Anders.

“Anders?” he asked.

“It’s a pseudonym.” She brought a window to the front where someone in a forum had posted, “Lynn and Gus Anders = Lynnette and Gustav Ivanovich = long line of commie agitators>>> send ’em back!”

The title of the forum was scrolled off the screen, but Rustle saw “liberalmediaconspiracy” was part of the long web address. “Are you sure that’s a reliable source?”

Sasha didn’t answer but brought forward another window, from some sort of genealogy site. This one listed a whole tree of Ivanoviches with addresses in Russia, and then “Gustav Ivanovich, AKA Gus Anders, San Francisco, 2072.”

Tim was leaning on the arm of Sasha’s chair by this point. He put his hand over her mouse without asking and clicked another window forward.

“‘Backstreet Best Reads’—I think I know who edits that. Let’s go outside. I wanna make a call.” Tim was out of his seat, grabbing his coat, while Sasha stayed rooted to her large consol. Rustle realized with a silver shimmer that Tim meant for him to follow and he rushed to keep up.

Tim hurried along, straight out of the student center and toward the garden. He removed his phone from a Faraday case and searched a number. He dialed and started to talk with barely a backward glance at Rustle.

“Hey, Sean. It’s Tim, out at Nutty U.”

“Yeah, maybe. I was wondering. If I made it to the city today, could we have another chat someplace?”

“One o’clock. Sure. Same place. Thanks.”

He closed the phone and smiled at Rustle. “Nice day to visit San Francisco. Want to come?”

 

They ended up eating San Francisco sourdough in the Presidio with an emaciated gray-haired guy in tie-dye who introduced himself only as Sean.

“I recognize you, of course,” Sean said to Rustle. He looked side to side. “Should have put a hat on him at least,” he said to Tim, “or warned me.”

“I was trying not to say anything on the phone.”

“This about him?” He jutted his chin at Rustle.

“No. Gus Anders and his wife Lynn are missing. You’d published something by Gus in ‘Backstreet Best Reads,’ so I thought you might know why.”

Sean gave half a shrug then stretched his neck side to side. Tim continued: “A student at Nutty U is missing too, Bill Ivanovich. We think he’s their son.”

Sean stared out at the bay for a while. Rustle and Tim tore off chunks of the sourdough. It was amazing bread.

“Okay. Yes. I know. I didn’t know their kid was missing, but I’m not surprised. I’m sorry to hear it. What do you want me to do?”

“Is there anything we can do to help? Would going to _On the Spot_ help?”

Sean rolled his eyes like a preteen girl. “Don’t do that. They probably wouldn’t touch it anyway.”

Rustle cut in: “They have a recording of him warning me. Saying his family could be threatened. Saying I shouldn’t trust anyone because the government could get to them.”

“Huh,” Sean smiled, “guess those genes breed true. Let me make a call.”

“Wait,” Rustle hesitated, “if you tell someone about that over the phone, it can probably be traced back to me.”

Sean raised his eyebrows, then turned his head and spit. “Glad to see you’ve developed some healthy paranoia, but my phone is well encrypted.”

“How many bits?”

“One twenty-eight.” Sean went ahead and dialed, then walked a few meters away, but Rustle had a feeling they’d just reevaluated each other. Sean’s call ended with “Right. I’ll pass that on.” Then he put the phone away and told them, “Nothing to be done. The operation is being watched by the appropriate people. They knew about the kid. Don’t expect anything too bad.”

Tim said, “How bad is that?” and Rustle heard something between real concern and professional curiosity in the color of his voice.

“Bad enough you should stay out of it, but not so bad your friend won’t make it to class sometime this week, if he cares to.”

They all sat for a few moments. Rustle didn’t quite feel comfortable with Sean. His way of looking away and then talking seemed a little too calculated. It triggered a pink itch along Rustle’s neck. But the assessment of Bill’s situation reassured him, just like knowing the bits of encryption for the key on his phone had seemed like the real thing. Their meeting was coming to an end, and Rustle couldn’t help but ask, “Could you tell me where you got your phone?”

“Why?” There was definitely a look of appraisal in Sean’s eyes.

“I have questions about Tell-M.”

“With biolock-linked encryption?”

“Maybe.”

“Custom?

“Probably.”

“Willing to spend over a thousand?”

“Yeah.”

“Here, I’ll call on my phone.”

Sean dialed, but didn’t walk away this time. “Hey, yeah, it’s me. And you?”

Rustle couldn’t hear the other side of the conversation at all, so he wasn’t quite sure if Sean’s next few lines were some kind of code in themselves:

“Couldn’t possibly.”

“Maybe next time.”

“If you’re sure.”

Then Sean looked his way and spoke a little more seriously. “There’s someone here who seems to know what he wants, but you wouldn’t want to meet him. I’m already out for the day, so I might help out for a courier fee.”

There was a pause while Sean listened, then he held his phone out to Rustle. “I’ll understand if you want to wander off a bit to chat.”

Rustle took the phone: “Hello?”

“So friend, go ahead and tell me what you’re looking for.”

Rustle walked to what he thought was out of earshot, wondering if Sean’s friend wouldn’t just tell Sean anyway. But he didn’t know how else he could make this sort of connection.

“I’m interested in a phone that has to contact another object, possibly a ring, to unlock at all. And I’d want strong encryption, possibly blowfish or TELL-M.”             “I can do either. TELL-M is faster and easier for changing keys, but I understand the traditionalist’s reliance on blowfish.”

“I’m not particularly a traditionalist. Does it matter to the cost or availability?”

“Naw. I can set you up with either in two hours if you aren’t fussy about the casing. Do you care what the ring looks like?”

“Not particularly.”

“Ring size?”

“Uh…”

“Let me put it this way. A guy of average build, maybe 5’10”, 180 pounds, not using his hands around a lot of chemicals or hard labor, is usually a size ten.”

Rustle felt a silver shimmer that the guy on the phone knew at least that much and seemed to have dealt with this before. “Nine or ten then. I’m sure it will fit on some finger.”

“So then we need to talk price. I can set you up with excellent antenna and coverage and prepaid unlimited use for two years. I’ll throw in a cover that blocks geo-location tracking unless you actively open those features, and you’re looking at five thousand even.”

“Wow. I was thinking it might be a little lower.” Rustle didn’t know if he was supposed to negotiate or how he would go about that. He still had plenty of money from his royalties, but that might have to last him all the way through college.

“Trust me, you won’t get much better from a reliable source unless you want to give up the ring connection. Any biometrics will cost even more. Do you want to go down to phone only?”

“No. I can handle $5000.”

“Fine. It will have to be cash. I can arrange a drop this afternoon if you hand this phone back to its owner.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

He walked back and gave the phone to Sean, who nodded a couple times and then looked up and said, “Four PM sound good?”

Rustle looked at Tim, who shrugged. “Sure,” Rustle said.

The deal was set. Tim took Rustle up to Coit Tower, and out along a pier to see some tall ships before they visited a bank and then met up with Sean in the Presidio. As they drove back to school that evening Tim didn’t even ask about the phone. Rustle thought back to how Tim went outside before calling Sean that morning and wondered how many of Tim’s conversations were encrypted. He thought about how neither Sean nor the guy who sold phones used their names, even while talking on an encrypted line. It was all so new to Rustle that he didn’t know if he was hanging out with particularly paranoid characters or if he’d just been sheltered back in his intunity. Either way, Rustle was glad to have his new phone sitting in a plain brown box on his lap. He’d have to learn enough to check it out for himself before he was ready to use it.

They returned to campus late that night. Walking through his hall, Rustle knocked on Bill’s door. He didn’t wait long for an answer.

Rustle put on his ring before he went to bed, even though he didn’t plan to use the phone right away. It was better if the phone wasn’t too closely tied to this trip to San Francisco or to the ring. But the ring could be used as an excuse for the trip and for spending a lot of money, if he ever needed to explain. He figured he’d give Tim a personal encryption key and his new phone number when the time came. Then he’d have to think of some way to get a code to Marie. He wondered if she’d seen Benjamin’s video collage, if she watched for news about him on the web, if she worried. Just in case his mom knew enough to worry, he used his old phone to text, “Still floating.” Then he climbed into bed, with the new ring on his finger and the new phone under his pillow.

 

#### Chapter 18

 

_Numbkat’s Blog                      Sunday, November 19, 2072_

_Sitting here in immigration_

_Not exactly a vacation_

_How can I prove where I was born?_

_My certificate is not torn_

_But they say it could be real bad_

_And I wait for my mom and dad_

_They’ve both been through immigration_

_It’s called naturalization_

_But if they had me in LA_

_What is the problem anyway?_

_And some guy here wants my phone now_

_What’s a kat to do anyhow?_

 

The next morning Rustle slept late, then woke with a start just before noon. Where was Caitlyn?

His brain fried with cinnamon and red. He was on his feet so fast that he felt dizzy. Then he didn’t know what to do. It was Sunday. Bill was already missing, and now Caitlyn?

He called on his old phone, got Caitlyn’s voice mail, and didn’t know what to say.

A few minutes later, he sent her the inspired text, “Call me.”

He pulled on clothes, a scratchy brown sweater he never wore, and dashed to the campus newsroom. No one was there. He thought about using his new phone, but he didn’t want it associated with whatever was going on. So he called Tim on his old phone.

“Hello?” Tim sounded like he just woke up.

“Hey, Tim. Caitlyn didn’t stop by this morning. Do you know if anything’s up?”

“Huh, no. You don’t think—Let me ask Sasha.”

There was a muffled noise that sent violet spikes through Rustle’s brain and then Tim was back saying, “Sasha says she posted something about an immigration issue. Maybe she’s still off dealing with it.”

“Posted? Where?”

“Her blog. Search Numbkat, N-U-M-B-K-A-T. And let me know if you get in touch with her. Now you’ve got me worried.”

“Yeah, sure.”

He hung up and searched Numbkat. He found “Numbkat: A delirious cat’s guide to life, the universe, and college.” It was a blog written in rhyme with links, photos, special effects, even videos. Sure enough, the most recent entry was a poem about immigration questions and having a phone taken away, but Rustle still wasn’t sure what he was reading. He scanned further back until one of the videos purported to show Numbkat dancing. Sure enough Numbkat was Caitlyn. The video showed her dancing at the Krishna event where he’d set up his speakers. Why hadn’t she told him about her blog?

He started reading from there and soon reached a poetic description of his arrest.

 

They took him to jail

A gene test to fail

A murder to pin on his rap.

They used the wrong form

Their freak was a norm

And so he’s sprung out of their trap.

 

There was a photo of him dancing with Katrina. Even for a web picture, it wasn’t very good quality, and he guessed it was a still pulled from Caitlyn’s video of the party. Seeing the photo was creepy. He realized he didn’t have any photos of Katrina. He realized Caitlyn’s and Katrina’s names both started with almost the same three sounds, and Caitlyn used the other spelling in Numbkat. He saw that Caitlyn had first written about him just after, and partly because of, Katrina’s death. Shivery indigo filled his belly, and a lump rose in his throat.

He went out to sit in the garden. He chose a bench in the sun, as far as he could get from anybody else. Then he read through Caitlyn’s blog from the mention of his arrest up to the present.

There was a whole section on watching his room the second time he was taken from campus.

 

Our mystery guy

Left with FBI

Or else contenders

Maybe pretenders.

 

I sit on the lawn

And stifle a yawn

His now empty room

Is more like a tomb.

 

Would anyone care

If he was still there?

Just ’cause it’s empty

I am sent to see.

 

It wasn’t a website he would have read if he’d come across it randomly. It seemed sort of silly and childish. But reading public poetry about his own life was eerie. Knowing Caitlyn was the author flipped his world upside down, again.

She’d told him from the start that she knew where his room was from working on a story. He’d jumped to the conclusion it was Tim’s story because she hadn’t published hers in the campus news. Now that he knew about her blog, it felt almost like reading her diary. He felt closer to her, but he also realized how little he knew her. And then he reached a recent posting about him.

 

He’s that mystery guy

I can please when I try.

Unlike red riding hood

I can do what I should.

Bring a roll or a bun.

Stop for a little fun.

Tell him a little dream.

Share a little more steam.

Until someday I’ll ask

What is under the mask?

 

Rustle didn’t know what to make of it. Would a casual reader know the mystery guy she was writing about now was the same one who’s room she’d watched before? Not sure how he felt about having obscure poems about him posted on the web without his permission, he wondered if anyone other than Sasha read the Caitlyn’s blog.

A couple holding hands walked down the garden path in front of him, and a pebble one of them kicked skidded over to hit his shoe. His feelings for Caitlyn shifted. In a way he was flattered, but he also felt a brownish grit accumulating on his skin. He remembered how he’d felt for Katrina when he stopped the elevator to find out whether she was the one in the body bag. He remembered how he felt about Marie when he came home to an empty closet after his interrogation.

He’d heard that there was a red shift if one star moved away from another. If his feelings were colors, might there be a red shift when someone moved away from him? Red was the color of his fight-or-flight response, a sudden hit of adrenaline, a heightened intensity of emotion. As he read through Caitlyn’s surreal website, the idea that his feelings could red shift seemed more and more plausible to Rustle.

He tried to force his colors into words, to imagine how he’d explain himself to Caitlyn if she were here. The magenta spikes that pricked him all over, they were his purple curiosity with his new red shift of paranoia or adrenaline. In the right moment, it could be erotic. If Caitlyn ran across the garden right now and he stood up in surprise, if she threw her arms around him and pressed her body close, he knew how he’d react. Just the thought of it was arousing. And yet, there was none of the black he associated with intimacy. The prickling along the surface of his skin was almost anti-black. It was the attraction of playing with fire, not the intimacy of bare skin and warmth.

How little he knew Caitlyn. He hadn’t known about her blog, hadn’t asked about anything in her life beyond her involvement with the school newspaper. He’d barely thought about her when she wasn’t present. Even when they were together, the only time he remembered asking her about herself was when she mentioned her dreams of mutating colors. Did he want to know her better than that?

A long green line formed in his mind. One end was labeled “Katrina.” He could see the letters like he’d typed the name, but they also held the sense of salt and vinegar potato chips that he’d often felt with Katrina. At the other end he saw the name “Marie,” and it included her complicated bitterness of tea and the rich, savory quality of bastilla. “Caitlyn” slid somewhere in between, an impression of cinnamon and bells, but without much substance yet. He knew the line represented some dimension that was important to him and his relationships, but he didn’t know what he’d call it in ordinary speech. Was it something to do with the depth of his interest in a person or with how he perceived the depth of the person? He thought it must be closer to the latter, because he’d been almost too interested in Katrina at times, but maybe that interest was at a more surface level.

As the line he envisioned began to split into multiple axis, Rustle wondered what he’d been doing in his relationships since arriving at Nutty U. He envisioned an axis with Katrina at one end and brown at her core. At the other end was Marie with a nebulous brown around her but completely outside herself and her name. He tried to place Caitlyn on the scale of brownness, but she floated above it, usually more toward Marie’s end but never settling for a moment.

He wondered how other people thought about these things and if they were better at putting them into words. To him, all the words felt superficial. There was a sense in which the first line only felt real when it ran from the scent/taste/feel of potato chips to the scent/taste/feel of Moroccan cuisine. But if he tried to think logically about Caitlyn’s place between them, if he thought about cinnamon being an ingredient in bastilla or about bells not being a food at all, it seemed impossible to explain to anyone else.

Another couple walked by. They weren’t holding hands, but they spoke with quiet focus and didn’t spare a glance for the garden around them. Their sleeves brushed each other, and their feet stepped together.

Rustle thought about all the conversations he’d had with Marie. Their first ambiguous and awkward moments on the roof, when they’d talked about their schools, their majors, their intunities. In some ways he’d learned more about Marie that first day than about anyone else he’d met at Hershenstein. Then he’d explained about his name before fleeing from her at the mixer. Their meeting in the park had led to a discussion of Marie’s past and dreams, their peculiar ways of thinking, and their intunities’ attitudes. But she’d sort of fled from that one. It was as if every time he saw Marie he had to know more about her. They both pressed to understand one another until one of them became uncomfortable and drew back. He thought he might be in love with Marie and wondered how much he’d risk to see her again or to get her an encryption key for his new phone.

He wondered why he was getting involved with Caitlyn at all and if he was taking advantage. She’d never done anything to imply that she wanted a deep or profound relationship with him, and he had been sincerely concerned for her when she didn’t show up at his room. Maybe that was enough for the two of them.

Rustle took a deep breath and pushed himself up from the bench. He dialed Caitlyn’s number again and listened to the ringing as he shuffled along the gravel path. It still went to message, but he didn’t leave another one. He liked having Caitlyn come by on Sundays, and he wouldn’t mind if they hooked up and got to know each other a little better. But he remembered when she said she liked Tim and Sasha for their “voracious minds and passions.” He wondered if Caitlyn saw that in him as well. He didn’t see it in himself or in Tim or Sasha. He saw it in Marie. He felt it in every touch, sound, color, and memory of Marie, and it was a very different thing than just wanting to have sex with her.

His feet stopped in front of the broken-down windmill where he’d decided to become an architect, where he’d told Marie that he’d decided to become an architect. The seedless remains of a couple of sunflowers rustled in the breeze. It was as if they said his name. He couldn’t stand the idea that he might never see Marie again. He would have to find a way to make contact.

He went back to his room and tapped the bottom of his mobile before lying down on his bed. The planes, gliders, and zeppelins began to fly around in circles.

After a while he said, “Hello, mobile.”

“Over, over, you’re breaking up,” said the familiar voice amidst pretend radio static.

Rustle said, “I really miss her, you know?”

“Who said that?” came the suspicious German baritone. “Identify yourself at once.”

He lay in silence for a long while, thinking about when he’d shown Marie the toys, how she’d been sincerely curious about them. He remembered her smiling at the mobile and realized how rarely he’d seen her smile.

Somewhere in his thinking he dozed off. A knock on his door woke him when the clock read a little past three. He’d been dreaming about Marie.

“Who is it?” he asked, running a hand through his untidy hair.

The Snoopy on his mobile said, “World War Two flying ace on the way.”

The voice beyond his door said, “Caitlyn,” and rang like bells.

Rustle tapped the weight to shut down the mobile before it could speak again.

When he opened the door Caitlyn was standing very close. Her eyes were a little red, but her hair was bouncy and brushed. Her loose brown skirt had actual bells at the trim, and her white blouse was unbuttoned low enough that he could see the edge of a white lace bra.

His ears pounded with the scent of cinnamon as she said, “I’m sorry I wasn’t here this morning. Did you miss me?”

“Yeah. I was worried about you.”

She stepped forward and hugged him, burying her head in his neck and pressing close to him just like he’d imagined. “I was worried about you too.”

His body tingled everyplace they were pressed together. He became very noticeably aroused and knew Caitlyn must be able to tell. She didn’t pull away. He thought maybe he should talk with her about the blog and about what she wanted from their relationship. His colorful relationship lines from before floated faintly in his head, but there was nothing faint or pale about how he felt at that moment. His body was pounding in a way that was sound and scent and touch all rolled up in his new magenta of playing with fire.

Rustle couldn’t let go of Caitlyn, and instead his hands slid up and down her back. He could feel her bra straps through her thin white blouse and the color became black as well as magenta in his mind. He closed his eyes and heard the bells on her skirt jingle as he touched just a little below the waist.

He couldn’t let go, but he didn’t let his hands search any further, yet. He wasn’t sure if this was the right thing to do, but the pounding inside was too much for him to stop on his own. He brought his hands up and down a few more strokes, feeling how it moved Caitlyn’s body against his and sinking into the burning blackness of each sensation. He knew he was waiting, waiting to see if she’d pull away, waiting because the delay made each sensation even stronger.

He felt Caitlyn reach out and shut the door. With his eyes closed he’d forgotten it was even open. But when her hand came back from closing the door he felt the fingers slide up his spine to his neck. He opened his eyes as she lifted her head and her lips brushed his, and pretty soon he didn’t know when he’d last breathed or when he’d closed his eyes. It had been a while, and even in the moment he knew he might be exaggerating to himself, but he was pretty sure he’d never enjoyed anything so much.

For a long time they stayed too close together to take off any clothes, but eventually he was glad he’d put a package of condoms in his desk when he moved in. He was very glad.

 

It was bordering on dinnertime when Rustle thought enough to notice he was hungry. At that point, he realized he was starving and hadn’t eaten all day. Caitlyn was asleep beside him with her head on his shoulder. They hadn’t spoken about whatever happened with immigration, but he could guess she was exhausted. They hadn’t spoken about her blog or their intentions to each other, and he felt a little brown and selfish for jumping into bed the way he had, but he couldn’t undo any of it now. Instead, he closed his eyes and tried to nap with her, but his stomach let out a growl like a garbage disposal.

Then he tried to slide out of bed and transfer her head to his pillow, but her eyes opened and blinked a bit.

“Time to get up?” she asked.

He smiled, somewhat tempted to climb back in bed and do something other than sleep, but he knew he had to get food.

“You can sleep. I’ll get us dinner and bring it back here.”

She pulled his pillow so she was hugging it even with her head still on one corner. “Hurry back.”

 

They almost didn’t make it to the IntuNight meeting. Neither of them wanted to go out and deal with other people. But Rustle told her that Bill was missing, and Tim might have heard something from his friend in San Francisco.

“What friend?” Caitlyn asked.

Rustle almost said “Sean,” but something made him pause. Maybe it was the memory of Sean saying Rustle should have worn a hat or that Tim shouldn’t have brought him. “Just some guy Tim knows. He said he’d look into it. Anyway, did you let Tim know that you were back? He was worried, too.”

Caitlyn shook her head, and Rustle realized that he should have called Tim as soon at Caitlyn showed up. He pulled out his phone. “Hi, Tim?”

“Hey Rustle, what’s up?”

“I just wanted to let you know that Caitlyn’s back. We’ll both meet you for IntuNight in a little bit.”

“Great. See you soon.”

After that, Rustle knew they had to get cleaned up, but it was still hard to let Caitlyn go. He almost wondered if he’d been drugged, to be reacting so strongly. But he flashed with a quick touch of red shift and was pretty sure his lust was authentic at least.

“Look, I need to take a shower. Can I meet you by your building, and we can walk to IntuNight together?”

“Sure.” Caitlyn gave him a kiss that went on just a bit too long before she slipped out.

Rustle hit the showers.

 

Walking from Caitlyn’s dorm to the student center, everything felt a lot more normal. “So where were you anyway?”

“Immigration. My parents are naturalized citizens, but I’d never had any problems before.”

“So?”

“Well, I was born in LA, but they wanted me to prove I wasn’t born in Tijuana. Neither of my parents even came through Mexico. They both flew directly from the EU. It was bizarre, like someone had planted evidence or they’d gotten me confused with someone else. My mom came in with my birth certificate and baby photos, including some showing me in the hospital in LA. But there was all sorts of paperwork, and they had to get some records sent from LA. It’s a weekend. You know how it goes.”

“Not really,” Rustle said. Other than his two brief encounters with law enforcement this year, he’d never had any interactions with government offices. “So this sort of stuff is normal? You don’t think it had to do with me or stuff at Nutty U?

Caitlyn tilted her head, and it took her a moment to answer. “I hadn’t thought of that. You hear such stories of government incompetence, it would be hard to know what’s a conspiracy.”

“But at least they didn’t question you about anyone here.” Caitlyn nodded, but her eyes were on the horizon as if her thoughts flew someplace else. Rustle felt a pink chill. “Did they make you stay overnight?”

“Yeah. How’d you know?” Caitlyn’s face turned sharply toward him with a ring of bells. She had changed from her skirt into jeans, so they made a faint swishing sound rather than jingling when she walked, but Rustle still heard bells sometimes when she spoke.

“When I called Tim, Sasha was there and mentioned the immigration office poem on your blog.”

Caitlyn looked at him with raised eyebrows. When he didn’t say anything more she whispered, “It wasn’t a very good poem. Did you read the rest?”

“Some of it,” he said.

“Well, what did you think?”

“It was a little strange reading it that way, but it’s very original. I felt kind of bad that I hadn’t asked enough to know you had a blog.”

Caitlyn reached over and hugged him, stopping him in the middle of the sidewalk. “I’m glad you found out then. I don’t usually mention it to people, because I know it’s a little silly, and I know sometimes people don’t like to be written about.”

Rustle pulled back before he could get too distracted by Caitlyn’s closeness. He thought he’d better speak now while he had clear opportunity. “Caitlyn, don’t take this wrong, but you aren’t going to write anything about us now, are you?”

“I won’t if it bothers you. But I don’t like to censor myself, and I never use anyone’s name or anything.” She was pouting just a bit and looking up at him in a way that was darkly distracting. Was she doing it on purpose? Did she know how strongly she was affecting him today?

His skin was tingling with black, but a pink and green voice came out of him saying, “I don’t want to interfere with your writing, but where I come from people don’t put stuff out there that way. I’m used to people saying almost anything one on one, but no one in my intunity puts anything personal on the web. It’s like, I don’t know, like it would pin the experiences down in a very non-synesthetic way.”

Caitlyn looked like she was less than convinced. Rustle wasn’t sure he’d explained it well or that what he’d spoken was even his main objection. Marie’s face flashed in his mind’s eye, and he wished she was there to talk things through, maybe even to be the girlfriend he needed to have such discussions with.

Then Caitlyn’s eyebrows came down, and she reached for his hand and laced her fingers between his. It sent black tendrils through his arm to his chest where he was sure they interfered with his breathing. If they didn’t start walking soon, he wasn’t sure he’d make it to IntuNight.

“Okay,” Caitlyn said. “I won’t write anything specific about you, even anonymously, for now.” Then she led him by the hand the rest of the way to the student center and down toward the newsroom. A small green part of his mind persisted in trying to unravel Caitlyn’s intentions versus what he still felt for Marie, and it insisted that he needed to discuss things with Catilyn before they went any further. The rest of his mind basked in the warmth and darkness of being with Caitlyn, and he didn’t say a word.

The newsroom was already packed when they arrived. People had formed a crowded circle, and Tim was talking about Bill’s disappearance. “I don’t think we should do anything big. We don’t want to cause more trouble in case there are aspects involved that we don’t understand.”

That was when Tim spotted the two of them at the door. His eyes got big for just a moment, and it was obvious he’d guessed everything just from the way Caitlyn was holding Rustle’s hand. Or maybe there was something else about Caitlyn’s expression or how she stood, because Rustle felt a lot of people look at them. He glanced at Caitlyn himself and felt violet and overheated. If he had to limit himself to words he’d say he was a little bit embarrassed and a little bit proud.

Tim went back to speaking with barely a pause. “I thought maybe this should be more of a word-of-mouth thing. We could ask around to see if anyone knows when Bill left or was taken.”

Caitlyn somehow cleared a path for both herself and Rustle through the crowd to where Sasha sat in a cushy chair. Caitlyn sat down on the arm of the chair and Sasha reached up to squeeze her free hand.

A taste of warm, ripe plum, as well as the color, seemed to pass from Sasha’s squeeze, though Caitlyn, to Rustle. It surprised him because he’d never felt much of a connection to Sasha before, but now, having her hold Caitlyn’s other hand felt almost intimate. He wondered how a non-synesthete would put that into words or if they’d have any way to express it at all.

Meanwhile, Tim’s words seemed to mostly drift through Rustle’s mind without sticking. After setting up a plan to collect information about Bill, everyone started plotting an event to host on Thursday. Most people in the room agreed not to go home for Thanksgiving. Some seemed to be planning a protest. Others seemed to be planning a party. Maybe it depended on what they learned about Bill. All Rustle knew for sure at the end was that something was happening in the Chomsky courtyard Thursday at around six.

 

On Monday, Rustle went to class as usual. Caitlyn had declined to come home with him, so he’d gotten a good night’s sleep. It turned out he needed it. Every class announced a big paper or project due in December, but in computer security there was a double whammy. Joe not only explained a big programming project to the class, but he handed back their previous project.

He passed Rustle a single page and didn’t meet his eyes. It said, “I am sorry to inform you that your project was accidentally destroyed before I could read it. Because I know you handed it in, you will receive a passing grade and not have to redo the work. However, I would suggest you submit future work in a format that allows you to keep a backup copy.”

Rustle’s head filled with popping bursts of yellow. He did not believe for a minute that his project had been “accidentally destroyed.” No one else in the class seemed to have received such a note. Clearly Joe had been uncomfortable with what Rustle submitted and chose to deny having read it. Was it because he’d have to report Rustle or the robot otherwise? Did he just want to stay out of it, or was he protecting Rustle?

The lesson that day focused on matrix-based encryption. Rustle could barely pay attention through his head full of yellow, but he watched Joe carefully, trying to read his politics from the way he gestured and moved around the room. Joe didn’t look at him all period, but Rustle couldn’t help feeling that his prof was a good guy.

That evening, Rustle lay on his bed trying to find useful sources on how Asia had influenced US technological development. That was for a social studies project. After a while he was chilled to the bone from sitting too still. He wished that Caitlyn would drop by to distract him and steam things up a bit, but he was reluctant to call her. Oddly enough, they’d never spoken on the phone, and she hadn’t replied to his one text message. Maybe he’d ask her about that the next time they got together.

He could have walked to her dorm. Maybe she’d like that, or maybe he’d seem too clingy or desperate. Were there rules that non-intunite guys all knew about? He heard green echoes of his social insecurities with Katrina filling his head now as he thought about dropping by.

He pulled out his matrix encryption homework. He read through carefully, trying to piece together what he’d missed in class. A memory of Marie helping him with math poured into him like warm tea. It wasn’t really a synesthetic experience. It was as if his memory of Marie was associated with the math, or maybe with the struggle to understand the math. The way he associated Marie with exotic tea had now locked into his memory in a sentimental way. He suddenly missed Marie so much it hit him in the stomach. He wanted to call and ask for her help with math. Instead, he imagined her helping him as he worked his way through all his notes. He imagined using encryption to protect every system in a modern house, from climate control to service bots. As an architect he could encrypt directions given to building bots to prevent tampering or spying. If everything was encrypted, it would make building literal and figurative back doors that much easier.

With the idea of a secure hidden access for Marie clearly in mind, Rustle decided his end-of-year project for computer security class would be applying encryption to architectural design. He wouldn’t give anything away that he might want to use later, but it would be a good chance for him to explore possibilities. Would Joe give useful feedback if he kept everything hypothetical? Could he trust Joe’s advice if it was offered?

Rustle painstakingly set up a few demonstration matrices for his homework, but his thoughts took on the color and texture of soft clay. He couldn’t completely trust the prof teaching him security and encryption. The people in San Francisco with the technology he’d need didn’t feel they could fully trust him. He kind of liked how things were developing with Caitlyn, but he didn’t trust her to keep his secrets and he wasn’t sure what she’d expect of him. After Bill’s warning and then his disappearance, Rustle wasn’t sure he could ever trust anyone again. At this point, the person he most trusted was Marie, who was probably a wanted criminal and nearly impossible for him to communicate with. By comparison, his matrix-based encryption seemed easy to understand and believe in, so he worked his way through, imagining Marie looking over his shoulder the whole time.

 

On Tuesday, when Rustle wandered by the newsroom to check in, he found Tim, Sasha, and Caitlyn caught up in whispered conversation.

Tim looked up as Rustle entered. “Good to see you’ve survived another day. Donut?”

Rustle didn’t usually hang out when he stopped by in the mornings, but Tim’s look as he waited for an answer seemed to require it. This was also the first time he’d seen Caitlyn since Sunday, so he didn’t need much persuading. Caitlyn had her feet tucked up beneath her although she sat in the most torn-up recliner. She was wearing a leather jacket over a light pink sweater dress and didn’t look much like herself. But when she smiled, Rustle wanted to rush over and kiss her. Instead, he pulled a chair in between Caitlyn and Tim, and selected a chocolate donut from the box.

“Any sign of Bill?” Tim asked in a low voice, just above a whisper.

Rustle shook his head.

“We have a fairly reliable report that he was taken from a piano practice room. Since his parents aren’t back yet either, we’re guessing the two are connected. No firm information on that. Meanwhile, politics both locally and nationally is heating up. We might be reaching a breaking point. We might be able to do a couple of things here to encourage that if we try.”

Rustle nodded, wishing he’d kept better track of outside news. He glanced around the circle to see Sasha looking about as chill as ever, but Caitlyn looked worried. She wore the leather jacket like armor, and there was no smile on her face now.

“Thursday’s event could turn into an all-nighter, maybe even an all-weekend vigil. We could say we won’t quit until Bill is returned.” Tim looked to Rustle as if seeking approval. Or maybe he’d already discussed this with the other two.

“Do you want me to call _On the Spot_?”

“No, they only do exclusives. We may have to keep you on the sidelines to not violate that. Have they given you any decision after the fuss with the Lindel video?”

“I haven’t heard anything. Are your friends in San Francisco encouraging you to stir things up here?”

Tim answered too quickly. “No. We’ve got to stay completely independent.”

Sasha let out an audible breath of air, not quite the word “hush,” but more than a sigh. Tim looked daggers at her, but they were clearly very intimate daggers, and Rustle didn’t want to get involved. He looked at Caitlyn, but she quickly glanced away. He heard purple bells and decided he felt lonely, but these people were the closest thing to friends that he had right now.

“So what do you want us to do?” Caitlyn asked, when the silence had filled with dust.

“The word-of-mouth network is operating,” Tim said. “We’ll collect stories. If anyone’s been harassed or seen anything, especially in the last couple weeks, we need to try to document it. Even if we can’t document it all, we’ll get those people to Chomsky on Thursday and they can all tell their stories. We’ll invite people to come record them. Make some art from those experiences. If we can find one or two new things, we’ll tie it all in with Bill’s disappearance, and maybe people will notice.”

Rustle wasn’t sure he liked or approved of this plan, but he promised to think about it. He was a little sad that Caitlyn didn’t offer to walk with him when he left the room, but he was late for math already.

 

 

 

 

 

 

#### Chapter 19

 

_San Francisco Chronicle                     Thursday, November 23, 2072_

_Seen Anyone Green Lately?_

_By Stella Wu, Chronicle Correspondent_

_“Going green” takes on a new meaning this Thanksgiving. It seems that a bio-activist, possibly the same person who brought us SFO flu, has released a new virus just to let people know the Department of Homeland Security is still as infectious as ever._

_The new combination virus, dubbed the “Green Flu,” doesn’t make you sick, doesn’t alter your DNA, and doesn’t change any structures in your brain (unless you think about it too much). It adds green fluorescent protein to what was supposed to be a secret government virus. For a few days you glow green, especially in the dark, apparently just to let you know you’re infected._

_Details for the new virus were released simultaneously on three websites. Dr. James Hoffsted, the head of UCSF’s epidemiology department says, “The formulation is standard for attaching green fluorescent protein, a commonly used marker, and the new virus as described on the web should be harmless, unless the virus it is marking was specifically designed to react to green fluorescent protein. We see no evidence of harm at this time.” When asked to elaborate on what the virus was latching onto, Hoffsted said, “The sequence being marked appears to be manmade and so far as I know has not been identified in any samples more than two weeks old.”_

_Hoffsted would not comment further, but right now most of the US military has turned green. Very few civilians without known military connections are green so far. Should we worry that our government released a new secret virus so soon after the SFO flu controversy? Should we worry that activists can decipher those secret viruses and zap us with green just to make it obvious?_

 

_“We are finally close to breaking the code, to understanding basic genetics, especially the human genome, at a new level. The US limited research on viruses and DNA alteration a century ago, and now we may pay the price if we don’t ramp up our own research, fast,” said Dr. Kiraki Kipsikawa, head of Bioinformatics at Stanford University._

_As Homeland Security restructures following a government investigation and audit, its charter allows for “undisclosed biological releases in the interest of national security.” Media mogul Dan Tridel took a stand for government policy saying, “I’m glad my government doesn’t cave in to public hysteria. We all know certain countries are developing biological weapons despite their treaties. If some terrorist with a demented sense of humor can turn people green, it’s even more obvious that we need protection.”_

_Neither green flu nor SFO flu were stopped by the government’s supposedly protective viruses. Can people protect themselves legally or medically from rapid advances in genetics and virology?_

_“You could try to avoid the viruses,” says Dr. Kipsikawa. “Good air and water filters would catch most engineered viruses. They tend to be large. Of course, you might also block one of the government immune viruses and then catch something it would have prevented.”_

_Asked his opinion of private companies offering immune enhancements, Kipsikawa said, “By the time the FDA approves a therapy, terrorists can access enough data to defeat it.”_

_Similarly, some organizations have asked why the government doesn’t distribute its protective viruses openly through a standard immunization program. The answer most cited is that once terrorists and others know about the designed immunity, they have a chance to design around it._

_“It’s guided evolution,” says Kipsikawa. “We may be pressed to evolve our understanding or even ourselves. We stand on the verge of major societal change.”_

 

Thursday morning, Rustle woke with the image of Bill being buried alive vivid in his mind. There was a continuous red thread cutting him inside through every moment. It had cut through his dreams, and now it cut through his waking thoughts. Rustle wanted to break something. He had to force himself to even get dressed. He chose browns. Then he accessed the news. The national news earlier in the week had been full of political infighting about Supreme Court bias and medical reform that he’d barely heard amidst his thoughts about Caitlyn and Bill. Now there was another big issue on every list: green flu.

It wasn’t really a flu, and not that many people had turned green. A quick check of _Far from the Tree_ revealed that no one on campus appeared to be green, yet. Then Rustle found one of the conspiracy sites he’d read before. It blamed the new virus on divergent thinkers working for the government. Rustle thought of Marie, her mother, their recent court-ordered delisting. He remembered Katrina’s death and was more than a little pink at the thought of catching something new, even if doctors thought it was harmless. He figured the news would cause Tim to cancel the day’s event. That was kind of a pity, because Rustle needed something to do. He couldn’t just sit in his room and study, and he hadn’t made any other plans for Thanksgiving.

Before he even made it to the newsroom, Rustle encountered his first protest. It might have been just a game of hacky sack in front of the student center, but all the kids playing had painted their faces green. They wore matching long-sleeved, fluorescent green tee shirts that read:

            **Emerald City II**

            Those in Power

            Are Still Frauds

Inside the student center, a TV showed images of real green people. Rustle couldn’t help but stop to watch. It was one thing to read the news on his phone, but seeing a press conference with green people was riveting. The man answering questions wore a military uniform heavy with decorations. His green skin looked almost like lime Jell-O. The questions and answers were anticlimactic and colorless:

Q: Is it true that over half of US-based military personnel are now green?

A: I don’t have, at present, confirmed numbers on that.

Q: Did the government release an engineered virus into military and other water supplies within the last week?

A: I have no comment beyond my initial statement.

The news service decided to spice things up at that point by splitting the screen into quarters. The top left continued to show the interview, but the other three showed green people going about their business in Washington DC’s National Mall, LA’s main international airport, and at Kennedy Space Center in Florida (where they had delayed a satellite launch).

Rustle finally made his way down to the newsroom. Tim and Sasha sat side by side at the large-screened computers again.

“What’s up?” Rustle asked, then amended: “Besides green flu?”

“Hi, Rustle.” Tim glanced back at him for just a moment before enlarging one of the windows on his screen. “Look at this.”

The headline read, “Intunites push blame back on government.” A quick scan of the article gave Rustle pink prickles, and he wondered if Tim had any deeper motive in showing this to him. It seemed that some government scientist had accused divergent thinkers of altering the latest Homeland Security virus before its release. An intunity representative responded that while she could not confirm or deny that any members of her intunity were employed by Homeland Security, they would not have done such a thing under any conditions. She warned the public not to be “tricked into targeting a group which had, just two weeks before, won back their civil rights.”

“We’re all set to make this a civil rights campaign.” Tim smiled, but Sasha tapped her mouse hard enough to make both of them look.

With her eyes still fixed on her screen, Sasha said, “Our role is to cover the news.”

“Yeah,” Tim swiveled his chair toward her, “but this can be our angle.”

“I’m sure you’ll notify the woman who makes the shirts,” Sasha hissed with the most emotion Rustle had ever heard from her. But Tim just shrugged and left the room, already dialing his phone.

Rustle twisted the ring on his finger, thinking about the encryption on Tim’s phone and how he often went outside to talk. Did he suspect the news office was bugged? Would he be surprised to learn about the robot in the Chomsky common room?

Rustle was about to make an excuse and leave when Tim rushed back in with Caitlyn. There was a moment of silence, and even Sasha turned to look. Caitlyn was green.

 

By three o’clock, Rustle was setting out potato chips and soda in the common room while someone barbequed a turkey in the courtyard. It seemed like no one had gone home for Thanksgiving. Even Benjamin was typing away in a corner. Behind him, a group with colorful hair was shooting vids of each other.

The weather was unusually sunny for November, and all the outside areas were hopping. The morning had been full of protests and performance art that triggered all sorts of colors and sound effects in Rustle’s mind, but a sharp red pain kept him cut off from it all. Indoors, he was enjoying the temporary quiet of the common room.

Then the cleaning bot came out from its hole in the wall. The narrower end of its cylindrical body hummed along the wall, and soon it was dancing its pattern of inwardly diminishing rectangles. An uncertain plum formed around the hum as the bot traced its pattern through the room. But the red cutting thread that had refused to let Rustle free all day, now cut deep into his appreciation for the simple efficiency of the bot. It was as if his anger crystallized into a ruby around the microphone he knew was hidden inside, and he came up with a plan to expose it.

Caitlyn came rushing in, and he wanted to tell her, but she blurted out, “Have you seen Sasha?”

Rustle hadn’t seen Sasha since morning when they were all together in the newsroom. He hadn’t seen Caitlyn either, and now he was seeing rather a lot of her. She wore a plasticized dress with white and translucent horizontal stripes alternating in a strategic manner. Her skin was green enough to glow through the translucent fabric above her breasts, even in the bright light of the common area. What would she look like with that dress in a mostly dark room?

“No idea,” he caught her hand, “but that dress is amazing.”

Her face scrunched up as if the comment pained her. Maybe she was tired of being the first green person on campus and was just wearing the dress for political theatre. “I’m sorry, but I have to find Sasha. She and Tim are having a tiff about all the tee shirts, and it’s getting out of hand.”

Caitlyn gave his hand a squeeze, and was gone. An indigo dripping started like a metronome, but soon became more like a heartbeat to Rustle. His red shift to thrummed in to make a purple bruised shade, and he knew he needed to get out among people. He finished setting out drinks, then deliberately stepped over the cleaning bot and headed out into the courtyard.

He immediately knew what Caitlyn had meant about tee shirts. Two retro girls with video tees had set their shirts to the same program. They displayed a frog puppet singing, “It’s not easy being green, having to spend each day the color of the leaves…” Then five or six people who he knew lived in Chomsky dorm sported black tee shirts with white letters saying, “Bring Back Bill, And Civil Rights For All.” A group of artsy-looking guys had long white shirts on which they’d printed the American flag using fluorescent green in place of the white stripes and stars. Other shirts had slogan’s he’d seen before like “Free love, free education” and “Take an intunite out tonight.” On a normal day, he’d see maybe half a dozen shirts with such themes around campus. In the Chomsky courtyard at present, only Rustle and the guy at the barbeque wore shirts without a message. And the barbeque guy was wearing tie-dye, which might be considered a statement in itself, or might be meant to camouflage any food stains.

Rustle decided to check out the rest of campus. About half the people in the garden wore shirts with slogans. His favorite was “At least we’ll see them coming in the dark.” The shirt was black and the letters were a whitish yellow that Rustle suspected would glow in the dark. By the far garden gate there was a blanket spread on the ground and a woman selling tee shirts.

“Are you a friend of Tim’s?” Rustle asked.

“Tim who?”

“Id Not, the guy who runs the school newspaper.”

The woman shrugged. She had long dark hair, very round eyes, and a very tight “Bring Back Bill” shirt. “I’ve met him,” she said. “Why?”

“Just looking for him,” Rustle said. He gave a quick wave as he moved on.

Beyond the “H” building, the campus quad was full of shouting. There were protestors on one side with signs ranging from “Fight terrorists not Homeland Security” to “The End Is Nigh.” Campus security and local police had cordoned off the center of the courtyard, and Rustle’s side held mostly students, almost all wearing political tee shirts. Some held signs as well. They shouted, “What do we want? Civil rights! When do we want them? Now!”

The bruising drip in his head reverberated with the chant, so Rustle decided to head back toward Chomsky. This time he walked by the main entrance and parking lot and saw people arriving by the bus load. He also saw three tables set up to sell tee shirts.

A man reached out and tapped his shoulder. “Hey, aren’t you Rustle Andoin?” The balding man in a many-pocketed vest had what could have been a phone, a recording device, or both, in his hand.

Rustle said, “No comment,” and hurried away. The red cutting thread thrummed along with his red-shifted indigo, and Rustle thought he might burst before he made it back to his room. At least the balding man let him go. Rustle kept his face down as he followed the path of least resistance back to Chomsky. He locked his door, put his hands over his ears, and took a deep breath.

The bruise-colored pulse finally receded. Aside from the red pain/anger that he’d grown used to over the course of the day, Rustle was left feeling kind of numb. He wished Bill would come back, but he couldn’t blame himself or take the loss personally any longer. He wondered where the politics of the day would lead and how much Tim had done to make things happen and annoy Sasha, but he felt as if he couldn’t affect anything one way or the other. He knew he wouldn’t say no if Caitlyn came to his door right now, but he no longer craved her, and he she wouldn’t make him feel any safer.

He felt like an outsider, but he didn’t mind at the moment. He paced and breathed until he didn’t feel numb anymore. He had a plan.

Food suddenly sounded intensely good. It was Thanksgiving, and there was a party he had helped to set up. First he took time to wash his face and shave. Then he changed his shirt for something tight and black but noticeably devoid of a message. It was time to eat and join the party.

 

At six he managed to be in the common room pouring cups of soda and setting them out on a folding card table.

The bot came out of its hole in the wall and started to gobble up crumbs. It adjusted its course along the wall to allow for the legs of the card table. As it created its first rectangule a tryptophan-tranked guy in shorts lifted his legs up to the card table so the bot could pass under. He almost created the accident Rustle was trying to engineer.

The bot made it around again, past two women texting from the sofa and Benjamin frantically typing in the corner.

This time, as the bot passed under the temporary table, Rustle gave the table a nudge. The guy with his feet up didn’t react at first, but some of Rustle’s carefully placed cups of soda swayed and fell.

One hit a bull’s-eye right on top of the cleaning bot. The bot let out an annoying beep and started flashing a red light. The guy with his feet up jerked them down, and Rustle said as quietly as he could, “Should we call campus maintenance?”

At another time, Rustle would have drowned in the indigo shame that flooded him as the bot continued to issue warning beeps and flash its red light. But he was all out of indigo and the red cord had been cutting him too long to effect his actions, and this _had_ been his plan after all. He cloaked himself in the numbness he’d found earlier.

The guy who thought his feet might have caused the accident was now speaking to someone in maintenance. Rustle pulled a paper and pen from his pocket and wrote a note: “Benjamin, there might be a microphone inside the bot. Do you want to film when they open it up?” Rustle moved to the corner where Benjamin kept typing and slid the note into his line of sight just as Tim had. It took a little longer this time, but Benjamin eventually focused on the note, then glanced up at Rustle for the barest moment before reading the note again and nodding. He pulled a video camera shaped like a pill bottle from his pocket and angled it to film the bot as it beeped out its distress. Rustle moved to a corner out of Benjamin’s field of view and prepared to make his own brief recordings with his new encrypted phone.

Then they waited. It was almost half an hour before maintenance showed up. Benjamin had gone back to typing, but he surreptitiously positioned his camera again as a tall, lean man in orange school staff clothing opened a laptop and started poking at the bot. He connected two wires and hit some keys on the laptop. Rustle suspected he was checking the same list of setting and updates as Rustle had for his project. What if he noticed the suspicious code and took the bot someplace else for repairs? What if he decided the damage was too much to fix today?

But Rustle had seen maintenance handle things like this on-site before. He’d tried hard to engineer an appropriate level of damage. While pretending to check his messages, he took a quick video of the set-up.

The repairman stood, but didn’t pack up the laptop. He called someone on his phone, stepping over toward the window. “Nothing much on the diagnostics… Check inside… Clean her up…”

Rustle was relieved by the bits he heard.

The man didn’t need any tools, just a passcard and his hands. The plastic top popped off the robot and Rustle took a step forward despite himself. He saw Benjamin lift his camera a little higher as he bent a little closer to the view finder.

There was nothing to see. The brushes and hoses all packed in rather cleverly, but Rustle had seen that in diagrams online. The waste receptacle was big enough to house a microphone, and possibly the enclosed motor block, but he’d expected to see the microphone front and center when the lid came off.

Then Benjamin started moving forward with his camera. He walked straight to the plastic cover which had popped off to the side. Attached to the cover was a web of black plastic with a lump in the center. The lump had a lead dangling that must have disconnected when the case opened.

The repairman noticed Benjamin, opened his mouth as if to question him, and then looked at what he was filming. Rustle moved closer as well, getting his new phone in position to record. Even the women who’d been texting on the sofa leaned forward to see.

“What the…” the repairman said.

“It’s a microphone,” Benjamin answered, and Rustle caught the moment on tape.

“But that’s not supposed to be there. Is this some prank?” The guy was looking up at Benjamin like he needed someone to blame.

“I don’t think so.” Benjamin started typing one-handed in the air and the repairman pulled out his phone. One of the women on the sofa pulled out her phone, too.

 

In a few moments the room was packed with a circle of people around the bot.

“What is it?”

“Did the school put that there?”

“Then the maintenance guy would know.”

“Homeland Security.”

“Shut up, it might be working.”

 

In a few minutes, a real news camera arrived, the big kind that sat on someone’s shoulder. The letters on it said KCNV, a station Rustle had never heard of, but he was impressed that they’d arrived so quickly.

Caitlyn arrived then as well, with Sasha right behind her.

“What happened?” Caitlyn whispered.

Rustle started to explain, but then the guy who’d had his feet up on the table started talking to KCNV, so everyone just listened to him.

Partway through the interview, two new guys in orange campus staff shirts showed up, along with a woman in a paper blazer who, crackling with hot pink, represented the school administration. The man with the big camera, and several students recording from phone cameras, turned to the new arrivals for information, but all they could give was a chorus of “No statement at this time,” and “Proper authorities have been called.”

Rustle pocketed his new phone and let himself be squeezed farther and farther from the action. He hoped no one would notice he’d been there. His plan had worked. It would be even better if no one connected him with it.

Wandering out to the courtyard, Rustle found a spot that was a little smoky from the barbeque but the air was not too bad to breathe. He figured that would discourage idle conversation as he sat surfing for news coverage and listening to the conversations around him.

He started with the KCNV site, but they had nothing up about the microphone yet. It appeared to be a sort of scandal-mongering network with an older female demographic, but if the microphone made it on, it would be better coverage than Rustle had expected. Right now their real-time coverage flipped between protests across California and short human-interest interviews. Rustle saw a female student from UC Berkeley describe how she was grabbed by two Homeland Security men when they closed the Genetics and Plant Biology Building in October.

“Whose lab were you working in?” the interviewer asked.

“Dr. Richard Lu’s,” the woman answered, looking down. She had heavy black bangs that swept across her round face when she lowered her head.

“I’m sorry. Does talking about this upset you?”

“No. Yes. Those Homeland Security men kept asking me about Dr. Lu. I knew he hadn’t been talking, but they started asking me about his politics. They asked if he’d ever mentioned a double gag rule or government censorship. I mean, he’s this very professional, respectful professor. All he did was stop speaking. I wouldn’t have known what was going on if they hadn’t asked me all those leading questions.”

“Did the government agents do anything besides ask you questions?”

“I was there all night without any sleep, and I thought I was crying and talking so much because I was so scared and tired. But the next day I had a terrible headache and was extremely thirsty. Some other student suggested I’d been drugged to make me answer more. I don’t know. I never thought things like this could happen. I just want to get my degree and know I can work safely someplace.”

The image cut from the tearful student to protesters in front of the Berkeley Genetics and Plant Biology Building. They had five times as many people as Rustle had seen in the Nutty U quad, but they were shouting the same thing.

“What do we want?”

“Civil rights!”

“When do we want them?”

“Now!”

They also had footage of protests in the Hershenstein quad, and they gave a link to the _Far From the Tree_ website. Rustle surfed over there. After a few more minutes, a link appeared under “Recent News” on the campus site that led back to the KCNV site. They’d managed a two-minute teaser with footage of the microphone and “feet on the table” guy.

By seven thirty, a little over half an hour after the microphone was uncovered, the KCNV clip had two hundred comments posted, most asserting that the government was spying on students. From there, the curious could follow links to protest footage, or the “Far From the Tree – Recent News.” “Recent News” posted a link to Benjamin’s footage. He hadn’t added any commentary, but there was music and a great close-up of the microphone.

Then a new link appeared on KCNV. It was titled “Green Student Reveals Government Harassment.” Rustle managed to catch the real-time broadcast in progress, but he knew from the banner at the bottom that the interview had been prerecorded. The green student speaking was Caitlyn.

“So we had to be back at the immigration office the next morning. My parents checked us into a nearby hotel, but around nine o’clock I went down the hall for ice. This guy in a suit came up and leaned on the ice machine. He said, ‘Your family could be in a lot of trouble. If you cooperate with us, we could make that go away.’”

Caitlyn wasn’t crying like the last woman. She sat up straight in her partially transparent dress. They seemed to have filmed her someplace just dark enough to let her green skin fluoresce impressively. Rustle thought she looked amazing, especially when she pouted her lower lip a bit.

“Did this man show you any ID or say who he worked for?” the interviewer asked.

“No, but it was clear he meant the government. I sort of assumed Homeland Security.”

“What did he want you to do?”

Caitlyn took a deep breath with her eyes closed, then opened them and said full force at the camera, “Spy on my boyfriend.”

Rustle realized he’d already guessed Caitlyn’s response, but still it kicked him in the guts. This was his fault. He caused trouble for everyone around him. And Caitlyn hadn’t even told him. Of course she hadn’t. Now she was telling reporters, and she and her family would be in even more danger. It felt caustic and lime green and stuck to his skin like clay.

Rustle was sitting with his phone in the middle of a packed courtyard hearing Caitlyn, identifying herself as his girlfriend only to admit to spying on him, or at least having been asked to. No one was looking at him yet, so he guessed no one else was watching this, yet. But he watched the guy at the barbeque answer his phone and then a burst of paranoia got Rustle moving.

He tried to keep watching the interview as he hurried down the hall to his room. The audio to his earbud was loud and clear.

“Why? Who’s your boyfriend?”

“Rustle Andoin.”

“That’s the student who was accidentally identified as genotypical during the SFO flu crisis and later detained by Homeland Security?”

“Yeah, but he’s a very private person. He doesn’t want me to tell anyone about us or even write any more about him on my blog.” A link to Caitlyn’s blog appeared immediately. Rustle wondered if Caitlyn was truly as shy about it as she’d projected. Could she be doing this interview just for the moment of fame?

As soon as Rustle thought it, he felt indigo shame wash him again. He hadn’t used it all up after all. In some ways it soothed the caustic red burn he’d been feeling. He reached his dorm room without anyone stopping him and slipped inside. He locked the door and left the lights off, hoping no one would know where he was. He sat down in his desk chair, arms firmly braced on the armrests and let the guilt pin him down as he listened and watched the rest.

“What did you tell the man at the ice machine?”

“What could I say? I was terrified. I told him that I would always do what was best for my country.”

“Did that satisfy him?”

“He said they’d be in touch.”

“And were they?”

“This was less than a week ago. I don’t know what they’ll do to me now. I need someone to protect me and my parents so we don’t all disappear like others have.”

“Who disappeared?”

“Another guy at my school who lives in the same dorm as Rustle. Bill Ivanovich and his parents disappeared last weekend, and I don’t think anyone’s heard from them since. Maybe they asked him to spy for the government and he wouldn’t. I don’t know. I just know the world has gotten really, really scary.”

That was the end. The real time feed cut to protests at the University of Southern California. Rustle didn’t bother to watch the beginning of Caitlyn’s interview. He didn’t wait to see how KCNV would handle the robot story. He sat in his dark room feeling indigo pulse with his blood. The red thread of pain that had cut him all day came back into focus, right through the center of his indigo. The numbness was gone. He felt raw, scraped up and dirty brown around his colorful center.

How could he have been so clueless? Even after all he’d been through, he put Bill and Caitlyn in danger. He was lucky nothing had happened to Tim or Sasha or Professor Joe. Or maybe it just hadn’t happened yet. Or maybe they were spying on him already.

He looked at his new phone. Maybe the whole thing with Tim and his connections in San Francisco had been a set-up. He hadn’t checked his new phone to see if it was bugged before recording video today. Could he ever learn enough to know for sure what was safe?

A green web formed in his mind showing how Tim could have been corrupted before Rustle even met him. What if Homeland Security had gotten to him after he wrote about Rustle’s abduction but before Rustle asked to check in with him? What if Tim had taken him to San Francisco and fed him information to discourage him from going public about Bill?

Bells jingled in the back of Rustle’s mind, and he knew he could never be with Caitlyn again without washing in indigo shame for what she’d gone through this last week, for what could happen to her at any time just for being associated with him. Could he ever be close to anyone? He didn’t even know how to safely communicate. He didn’t want to call Caitlyn from either of his phones. He didn’t want to call anyone as the brown sense of being spied on crept over his skin like a shell.

 

Rustle’s phone rang. He found his body tensed against the chair. When he moved a bit, his arms and back were sore. It was as if he’d been pushing back against the indigo weight and the cutting red thread.

Another ring, Rustle glanced at his everyday phone. It was _On the Spot_ calling. He didn’t want to talk to them, but it was about time for his daily check in anyway.

“Hello?”

“Rustle, this is Paula with _On the Spot_. Have you seen the footage of Caitlyn, the green woman claiming to be your girlfriend?” The words were a rapid rush and Rustle wanted to hang up.

“Yes.”

“Is she telling the truth?”

“How should I know?”

“Is she your girlfriend?”

“I guess so, more than anyone else is.”

“Good enough. Let’s get you on again tonight.”

“Please, I don’t want to.”

The pause on the line was only long compared to Paula’s usual hurricane pacing. “Rustle, you know you’ll feel better afterward.”

“Not really.”

“You will. And think of all the people who care about you, how much good you could do at this critical moment.”

Rustle wanted to bury his head in the sand, but then he thought of someone who might care about him. If Marie thought about him half as much as he thought about her, she’d watch for something like this. Maybe he could send a message. “You’re right. I’ll do it.”

“Knew you would.”

 

_On the Spot_ had trouble clearing the common room this time. Still, at nine o’clock that night, Nina sat across from Rustle, ready to begin the interview. “Hello again.” Nina spoke directly to the camera. Her hair seemed longer and curlier than Rustle remembered. “I’m Nina, and we’re _On the Spot_ again with Rustle Andoin at Hershenstein University in California. Tell me Rustle, are you having girlfriend troubles again?”

Nina turned to him with a froglike frown, and the tone of her question was so flip, that for a moment Rustle couldn’t answer. Nina reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay, just tell us how your new girlfriend caught the new flu.”

This was not how Rustle had imagined the interview going, but he forced himself to talk. “I don’t know. Maybe it happened at immigration. I just found out today that when her family was called to the immigration department last weekend, someone showed up at their hotel and persuaded Caitlyn to spy on me.”

“Your girlfriend agreed to spy on you?”

“They threatened her family. What else could she do? I told everyone last time I was on your show that a friend tried to warn me about this. Well, that friend was Bill Ivanovich, and now he and his family have disappeared, too.”

“Wait, don’t we have footage of that warning? My crew tells me yes, here we go.”

The filming light on the camera went off, and Rustle watched without sound as Bill’s warning was aired for everyone to see. Nina sat silently beside him, then started shaking her head slowly as the recording light came back on.

“Do you think Bill was taken because of his connection to you?”

“I don’t know. He’d avoided talking to me since then, so it doesn’t make a lot of sense. It seems like no one is safe here. One person I know is missing, one admits that she was coerced into spying on me, oh, and they found a microphone hidden inside the cleaning bot right here in this room.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You can find links to it from the campus news site, that’s _Far From the Tree_ ’ under ‘Recent News’ the last I checked.”

Nina looked a little put out for a moment, but then she leapt back in with a hand on his knee. “So tell me, Rustle, are you going to stay with your girlfriend after all this?”

Rustle wondered how this could be news with everything else that was going on, but he didn’t want to say the wrong thing. He ran his hand along his chin to buy some time and tried, “You know, I haven’t had a chance to speak to Caitlyn since all this came out. I feel bad for putting her in this situation, and I don’t know if it’s even safe for her to keep seeing me. I mean, maybe the only way no one will pressure her to spy on me is if we aren’t together at all. Of course, that means that no one should ever get close to me and I should never trust anyone.”

Nina loved that line. She squeezed his knee and said, “Oh, that’s terrible. What is America coming too when a young man like Rustle Andoin is afraid to have a friend or a girlfriend?”

Rustle heard the way she said it, looking at him but speaking to her audience, and he knew that was her sound bite moment for this interview. In a dust of brown, he worried they’d end the interview right there. He needed to hurry and get in a bit for Marie.

“You know, one of the first people I came to really care about here suggested that I like to play with fire. But I’ve learned that’s not so. I just won’t give up what I care about because there’s fire involved.”

“And if it involves government surveillance?”

“There seems to be plenty of that for everyone.”

“Now that’s depressing,” Nina said with a sigh that didn’t sound at all depressed. “What are we going to do with you, Rustle?”

Rustle couldn’t find much to say to that. Nina squeezed his knee like a flirt but tilted her head and pouted like she felt sorry for his betrayed innocence. It was getting old. Rustle hoped this would be his last interview. He hoped what he’d said would do some good for Bill, Caitlyn, Marie, or someone, but he felt so tired.

He dragged back to his room after the interview and fell asleep before ten.

 

He woke to a knock that he knew was Caitlyn. The echo of bells traced his skull. Light cut through his window blinds. The cutting red string from yesterday had left a scorched line through his center despite the indigo floods all day long. He didn’t want to answer, didn’t want to move.

“Rustle, are you in there? Please answer.”

He owed it to Caitlyn to answer. His mind told him so in a cool note of green, but it felt like lifting a marble statue from the inside when he pulled himself off the bed.

He opened the door without even smoothing his hair. “Hi, Caitlyn.”

She started to step in. Rustle held up a hand to stop her. She stepped very close and pulled his hand to her chest, holding it there with both of her own hands. Despite everything, it sent dark magenta sparks right through Rustle’s center.

“Don’t be mad.” She wore a loose white dress today. Even with her green skin, it made her look young and innocent. He realized she hadn’t put on make-up or earrings. She seemed a totally different Caitlyn from the one in the semi-translucent dress who’d gone public last night, telling all about threats and spying.

“I’m not mad. I can’t be. I feel so bad about the trouble I caused you.” The next part was hard to get out around the lump in his throat. “And I think we should avoid being alone together, for your sake.”

Caitlyn stepped back, letting go of his hand so unexpectedly that he let it drop. “You _are_ mad. Otherwise you’d let me decide what risks I take. I’m as grown up as you.”

“It’s not about that. If I don’t say no, then someone else could pressure you to be with me, to get information. I don’t want to put you in that position. I don’t want that responsibility.”

Indigo waves crashed in his skull, but Rustle was glad he’d gotten the words out.

Caitlyn stepped back and shook her head. “If we can’t talk privately about this, can we at least take a walk, in public?” She stood back with one hand on her hip, looking annoyed and shimmering between magenta and black.

“Yeah. Give me a moment to change.” Rustle closed the door and pulled on the clothes at the top of his drawer. The shirt was yellow and clashed with the colors inside him, but he didn’t want to leave Caitlyn standing in the hallway too long.

When they walked, Caitlyn took the lead and instead of heading for the garden or campus center, she took him all the way to the playing fields. “There,” she said, “as private as we can get in public.”

“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” Rustle said. “They could still pressure you to spy on me if we’re even this private.”

“Get over it, Rustle. If I’m not worried about it, why should you be?”

“Because the whole mess is my fault! Bad things happen to people who get too close to me. You don’t know what it’s like. If they pull you in and drug you, they might find out what they want even if you don’t plan to tell them. And anyway, I can’t stand the thought of them doing that to you.”

And then, as if he’d been hiding in his pain to avoid the question, he blurted out, “Did the person at the ice machine tell you to have sex with me?”

“No!” Maybe Caitlyn had seemed a little stiff and annoyed before, but now her face flushed and her eyebrows crunched.

He wanted to believe her. She looked like she was telling the truth, but why else would she take that step right after being threatened? Rustle could understand if she felt isolated and scared and wanted to be close. If he’d read the signals right, their relationship was headed that way even before the hassle with immigration and the man at the hotel. But if she’d just been asked to spy on him, she shouldn’t have jumped in bed as if nothing had changed.

Rustle knew by the wrinkles on Caitlyn’s forehead and the indigo filling his own skull that he was walking on treacherous ground, but he had to push. “I’m sorry, but—

I just don’t understand. What was going through your mind? If you’d decided not to spy on me, then why didn’t you tell me? Were you still deciding? Were you thinking about that while we were touching each other?”

“Seriously, Rustle. I had sex with you because I wanted to. I still want to. I was thinking about you and us.”

She took his hand and tried to pull close to him, but her touch burned in a mix of black and red, and he pulled away. Caitlyn shook her head and looked around.

“Fine. This is all stupid, and I’m not going to lie to you. Just don’t tell Tim.”

Something shifted in the way Caitlyn stood. She didn’t look so innocent. She started walking with the assurance she’d shown every time she walked into his room, with the confidence that he’d fall in step beside her, and he did. He had to hurry to keep up. And he heard the familiar sound of bells.

“It wasn’t until that night, you said something just before IntuNight. You worried that my knowing you had caused immigration to hassle me. Until then, I hadn’t made the connection. Afterward, I just couldn’t let it go. It seemed distinctly possible in that scary government way we’ve all come to know. I mentioned the idea to Tim on Tuesday. He thought it was possible, but we had no proof.”

“Wait, you didn’t connect it to me when someone asked you to spy on me?” Rustle was trying hard to drown the sound of bells and escape all traces of black, red, and indigo. He needed to concentrate, to understand how non-intunites thought, to understand how one non-intunite thought.

“Rustle, I’m only going to say this now, and then we’ve got to pretend you don’t know. The thing at the ice machine never happened. Tim made it up. He figured it would prevent them from coming after me later. I’d just turned green, and he figured it was the perfect media play.”

It took a while to sink in. Rustle just kept walking beside Caitlyn, across a green athletic field, refusing all other colors. If Caitlyn had lied, then his feelings since yesterday didn’t make sense. Maybe she’d been called to immigration for knowing him, maybe not. But she’d just played for the world’s sympathies with a lie. It was a big lie, a lie that involved him. She credited the idea as starting with him, and certainly she couldn’t have made people believe her without his credibility to build on.

All he could say was, “Really?”

“Really.”

“And you weren’t going to tell me?”

“I don’t know. Tim didn’t want me to tell you. We weren’t going to tell Sasha either. But maybe I knew that I’d end up telling you. Maybe that’s why I dragged you out here. Tim’s worried your room is bugged, you know?”

Rustle had pretty much assumed his room was bugged, or his phone. Maybe he should be more outraged by that, but somehow it didn’t compare to what Caitlyn and Tim had done.

“I can’t believe you’d lie like that.”

“They’ve got to be stopped, Rustle. Maybe the ice machine part was a lie, but would it be better to wait until they really took me the way they took Bill? What if I never came back? And anyway, they must have done something to me. I’m green!”

He felt for her. It might not have a color, but he wanted to reach out and hold her. By the way she said it, he knew being green bothered her, and maybe she really had felt safer saying something now, before anything happened.

But he couldn’t stop the feeling of red, perhaps the feeling of adrenaline filling his system, binding with his real worry for Bill, with the shame he’d felt believing he’d caused Caitlyn to be threatened, with a new contempt for how Caitlyn and Tim had lied to him and everyone. Maybe he was just too simple for the world outside his intunity. There were layers upon layers of deception all around him. Caitlyn had pretended something happened that the government would have pretended didn’t happen even if it had. Marie’s mom and some professor at Berkeley were under government orders not to speak about their work or even admit to colleagues or family that they weren’t allowed to speak. Marie was tied up in who knew what, although she did speak about it in her own oblique way. Katrina hadn’t told him when she found out he was an intunite, and she’d never meant to tell him that her father worked for prevention management. Bill had at least admitted there were things he wasn’t telling, so it wasn’t surprising he’d never mentioned his parents.

Then again, Rustle hadn’t originally intended to tell Marie or anyone else that he was synesthetic or an intunite, and he still hadn’t told anyone what he suspected about Marie.

Finally, a green net formed to contain the red that roared inside him. Everyone must hide things sometimes. Everyone was alien and alienated to some degree. What was right or fair from one person’s point of view could look very wrong and out of proportion to someone else. But he couldn’t just give up. He’d meant what he’d said about not giving up on things he cared about just to avoid getting burned. But that didn’t mean he had to jump into every fire just because his friends did.

“Caitlyn, I’m sorry for any part I played in your troubles.” Her eyes went wide and the black that tugged his insides made him walk and talk even faster. “However, I’m very uncomfortable with the way you lied to me and everyone else. I’m willing to believe it seems okay to you and Tim, but I don’t think I can be close to you knowing you’re okay with that.”

He watched Caitlyn for a reaction, but he didn’t see much as she was watching her feet. She reached out to take his hand and he stretched his fingers across the final space to meet hers. She half smiled as tears started to roll from her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “This hurts, but I’m glad you were so nice about it.”

Rustle didn’t feel like being nice, but he was glad he’d managed it. The black static between her hand and his was almost too much to ignore. “I feel bad. That doesn’t even tell it. I feel like there’s a ball of burning fire inside me barely contained within a tight green net, and I know it would creep over into things that should feel good if I tried to ignore it.”

“Wow. I wish even more it hadn’t happened like this. Are you sure we couldn’t try again?”

They’d stopped. She was standing in front of him, holding his hand, with tears streaming down her face and making little darker spots on her innocent white dress. He knew she was attractive and he kind of felt sorry for her, but he let his green safety net contain any black or bells. He was still angry and hurt and burning inside. “No. I wish it was different, too.”

He squeezed Caitlyn’s hand, then walked away across the field. He wished he could go to Bill or Marie, to talk things through and make sense of it all. He wished he could wander the steam tunnels where it was warm, where others had tried to make sense for themselves. He wished he didn’t feel so trapped in his own net, that he had someplace he could go and just fit in.

Instead, he ended up back in his room, dissecting his new phone, and searching online for anything he could do to make sure it was secure. He didn’t know who to trust anymore.

The new phone had been his hope for communicating with Marie. Now, even if he found a way to give her an encryption key, he’d have to know enough to verify his phone first. A new green web began to form in Rustle’s mind. His issues about phone security seemed to mirror concerns about the government-released viruses. If SFO flu and green flu were created to show people what Homeland Security had done to their bodies, then maybe a web virus could show where the government put backdoors into encryption programs.

The green web came crashing down around Rustle. There was no way even the best programmer could identify all the back doors in encryption programs. Whoever had designed SFO flu and green flu had inside information, and the number of viruses even a crazy government department could release would have to be fairly small. The beauty and horror of backdoors in programming was that there could be so many of them. You didn’t need a big expensive lab to design them. If Homeland Security was comfortable kidnapping college students, they could easily lean on any commercial encryption provider. They could make the original programmer put in back doors for them.

Rustle couldn’t create a virus to tag all the backdoors in a computer program. Nobody could. But his phone’s TELL-M was open source for a reason. He could learn to understand the math, the programming, and every piece of hardware in his cell phone. He could refuse to use anything he couldn’t verify himself. From there he could work up to building robots that he knew were secure. If he built and monitored his own robots, he could make buildings that were secure. He could make a safe space for himself and for people he cared about. He could even make his own backdoor for someone like Marie.

The new green web grew as he collected more information, tested more possibilities. It grew to include his phone, which he understood better with each test he ran. It grew to include his term paper, which he developed in outline form as he considered each possibility with his phone and several other leads he found online. It grew to include ideas about architecture and the dream house he might build one day. The web couldn’t take the place of Caitlyn or make him feel any less alone. It didn’t make him any more comfortable with his recent insights about people. He just kept building what he could, because he could. That, at least, felt right.

 

The blaze that had burned through Rustle after Caitlyn’s confession fueled his studies all weekend. By Sunday, he was calm. His new phone was in bits across his bed, but he felt snowy white inside. With every check he could learn online, the phone was clean at a physical level. That was by far the easier part to check, but it was a start.

Then a text came in on his other phone, the old one. It was from Rob-O, who hadn’t had anything to do with him since Katrina’s death. “Y don’t U just leave?”

Rustle realized it was the first hateful message he’d been sent since he’d become a celebrity. It was true that his number was unlisted, but with all he knew about phone security now, he realized it wouldn’t have been hard for someone outside to find the school listing. Rustle wondered what had set Rob-O off.

It was Sunday and he knew he ought to attend IntuNight. He had no desire to be in a room with Caitlyn or Tim, but he worried what people might say or think of him if he didn’t show. He wanted to at least know what people were saying, and he still wanted to do whatever he could for Bill. He decided to check Caitlyn’s blog first, in case she’d written anything about him now that they’d broken up. The top entry read:

 

If I’m green I can’t be blue

Never thought our love was true

Can’t much say that I blame you

Still I’m not sure what to do

 

If I’d spied then I’d hate me

Either way you can’t trust me

So you say you won’t see me

Deep inside will you miss me

           

That post, from just four hours ago, already had over a thousand comments. Rustle only glanced through, drawn especially by entries using his name, but he saw snippets including:

 

                        U R better off without him!

                        That Rustle seemed like such a nice boy. I’m so disappointed.

                        Is it just because you’re green?

 

He filtered for posts with user IDs linked to the Nutty U student web and found:

                       

                        People stood by him after what he went through. What a jerk!

                        He’ll get over it and come back to you.

                        U R hot green or not call me

                       

Rustle decided he couldn’t deal with attending IntuNight this week. He thought about checking the wider web to see what was said about him and decided against it. Instead, he started reassembling his phone. A dirty brown bubble forming inside him.

When he received another text an hour later, he almost didn’t check it. When he saw it was from Caitlyn, he really didn’t want to but knew he would. When he saw what it said, something inside him popped. “Bill’s back. At IntuNight. Please don’t stay away because of me.”

He rushed to the student center without hesitation. The yellow of his shirt fit him fine now, as he took the steps two at a time. The crowd from IntuNight stretched out into the hall. Everyone was talking, eating, smiling. The meeting seemed to have turned into a party. Rustle wove his was through, wanting to see Bill with his own eyes.

It wasn’t hard to find the densest knot of people, almost in the center of the newsroom, and of course, Bill was in the thick of it, eating a piece of pizza. Tim was there too, but Caitlyn and Sasha were nowhere to be seen. A woman with fire-orange, spiky short hair was filming whatever Bill was saying. She looked like a student, but the camera was larger than her hand and had its own spotlight, so Rustle stayed behind her, not wanting to deal with any exclusivity issues.

Then Bill saw him and waved the camera woman to stop recording. He plowed his way straight to Rustle and caught him in a one armed hug. “Hey, guy. Good to see you. Look, they brought pizza!” Bill held up his slice as if it were a trophy. “It’s like a post-release tradition now!”

Rustle laughed and couldn’t stop for a few moments. “I’m so glad you’re back.”

“Yeah, well, I saw your latest statement that you’ll never trust anyone, so maybe it’s safe to talk to you again. Later?”

“Later,” Rustle said. Bill drifted back into the crowd.

The woman with the flame hair and the camera filled the spot Bill left in front of Rustle. Her camera dangled from her hand, apparently turned off.

“I know, you can’t be quoted or credited. But I checked. There’s no reason you can’t make a video in your intunity.”

“Huh?”

The woman moved her red-orange spiked head side to side impatiently. “Hello? We’re making vids over winter break about all the intunities represented at Nutty U. It’s one of those ideas created by this group when it formed around your abduction. Obviously, there needs to be a vid about your intunity. Obviously, you’re the only one who can film it. It’s brilliant, really. Even without your name, everyone will know who shot it.”

“Right, except I know nothing about making a video, or editing, or any of this.”

The woman’s head tocked left and right again.

“Fine. I’ll work something out, lend you one of my cameras and do the editing myself if I have to. But you will make the video. You have to.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“You’ll do it.”

She walked away with her head slightly cocked to one side. As if the conversation hadn’t been surprising enough, the woman made her way to the corner where Benjamin sat typing into his invisible world. She touched his arm, and when he looked up, she kissed him. And he kissed back. They were obviously a couple, and Rustle felt happy for them with tinges of the color from the woman’s hair.

He felt little sparks of happiness that Bill was back, too. He looked around for the celebratory pizza, and noticed that a couple of people looked away to avoid his eyes. No one else came up to talk to him, and the press of the crowd started to feel more brown than orange. A few people shook their heads at him, but he told himself it didn’t matter compared to Bill being back.

He turned around and tried to move toward the door. The crowd dragged at him like he was a bug in syrup. Then just when he could have reached the hall, someone dressed in gray and black blocked his way.

He looked up to see Sasha. She stood silently for much longer than most people would consider polite in conversation, let alone when blocking a doorway.

“I didn’t know you could be so stupid.”

Sasha said it without a twitch, but the words vibrated indigo through Rustle’s whole body. He’d been much stupider than Sasha realized, but not in the way she thought. If he told her the truth, what Tim and Caitlyn had done, would she be better off knowing? But he knew as the indigo faded that he’d never tell.

After an awkwardly long pause, although perhaps not so long in Sasha time, he said, “And you still don’t know.”

He turned sideways and made his way out the door, keeping his eyes down to avoid anyone else’s accusations.

 

 

 

#### Chapter 20

 

 

_USA Now                                           Monday, January 8, 2073_

_Bio-Terrorist Believed Dead in Secret Lab Explosion_

_By Johanna Bask, Now Correspondent_

_American agents destroyed a terrorist lab in Guadalajara, Mexico in the early hours of yesterday morning. The lab, disguised as a low-end drug manufacturer, was reportedly housing a bio-terrorist known only as “Marie,” who is believed to be responsible for SFO flu, green flu, and possibly other terrorist attempts on US and world populations._

_The explosion occurred around 2:15 AM in an industrial sector of Guadalajara. “Marie” is believed dead. No other injuries and only minor damage to neighboring buildings was reported._

_The US government has issued a statement saying procedures were designed to destroy any viral agents present with minimal risk to surrounding populations and that the Mexican government was consulted immediately beforehand._

_Reactions in Guadalajara have been mixed with some residents supporting the US action as a necessary blow against terrorism while others, like an elderly gentleman who would not give his name, suggested, “I don’t believe anything the US say. Who knows who is there or what they making. US just want to blow things up.”_

_Reactions in the States have been mixed. USA Now polls show 68% of those surveyed support this action against bio-terrorists, while only 57% claim to support the department in “all or most of its bio-terrorism policies.” However, several human rights groups are claiming this action was an intentional execution without trial._

_One California-based organization called Genetics Watch issued this statement: “While we do not support the covert creation and release of viruses in either the SFO flu or green flu incidents, we feel the government deserves the majority of the blame in both cases. If Marie or someone else was involved in only these two actions, it is not clear she committed a death penalty offense. If Marie has been killed without a fair trial because the government needed a scapegoat, then she should be mourned as a martyr.” The group is sponsoring candlelight vigils at several locations._

 

           

Rustle had already dressed, in a new blue sweater his mom had sent him and cargo pants (which he’d had to exchange for a different size) from his aunt. He had brushed his teeth and combed his hair. He had gathered his things for comparative history, his first class on this first day after vacation.

But after he read the news about Marie, he couldn’t step out his door. Ice crystals formed under his skin. The edges of his vision turned brown.

He couldn’t sit down. He picked up a calculator from his desk and turned it over and over in his hands as if there might be a side he’d never seen before. He tapped at Snoopy on the mobile over his bed but didn’t activate the voice of the World War II flying ace.

The brown in his vision crept across his frozen skin, crept out to coat every object in his room. But his mind was devoid of thoughts. He walked the short length of his bed handling objects one after the other, but there was nothing inside him. He was an animated, empty brown shell.

When noises from the hall brought him back to the present, he looked at the clock: 12:05. Hours had passed, but he still didn’t want to leave his room. The sound of his own thoughts was deafening now, and he couldn’t face the noise outside as well.

He couldn’t believe Marie was dead.

Or he could.

He didn’t want to.

He remembered a pair of hand-dipped candles he’d been given by Tansy, one of the few people at his intunity who’d let him interview her for the video project. Tansy had been very friendly to him, with the warm sensory intimacy he used to take for granted at home. They hadn’t said much to one another that made sense now, but Rustle knew it would be okay to burn one of her candles for Marie.

He _wanted_ to burn a candle.

He dug the candle out of his luggage and found a sheet of foil he’d used for a class project. He shaped the foil to fit the bottom of the candle and then made a drip plate with a wide enough rim to hold the candle upright on his desk.

He opened his window hoping to keep the smoke detector from triggering. The cold damp air from outside surprised him. Then he cast around for a way to light the candle. In the end he used a soldering iron and made several careful attempts to char the wick while blowing on it until finally the candle lit.

The effort left him feeling loose and creepy, more like a brown sock puppet than like a brown shell. He sank down on his bed, staring at the candle.

It was only a couple centimeters tall when someone knocked on his door. He wasn’t going to answer it, but the person didn’t wait for him to. The flame-haired woman who’d lent him the video camera stood in his doorway. She looked at the candle. Rustle still sat staring at it from the bed.

Warm air from the hall came into the room. The draft from there to the window made the candle sputter and go out.

Rustle felt a rock land in his middle. He looked up at the woman in the doorway. She wore black tights and a top that could have been woven from silver holiday ribbons. Her spiky orange hair looked strangely separate above her pale round face. He couldn’t remember her name, wasn’t sure if he’d ever learned it.

“Happy New Year?” she asked.

Before he’d even thought through the idea that he was supposed to say something back, the woman continued with, “Whatever. Can I just get my camera and your recording then? You did make the recording, right?”

Rustle reached into his duffle, still open from getting out the candle. The camera was a solid metal lump in the middle with its memory chip still inside, but...

“It’s broken,” he said, remembering his dad snatching it from his hand and throwing it across the room. Then he’d given Rustle an hour to pack his things and get out. “I could probably pay to have it repaired.”

“Whatever. How much had you recorded?”

“As much as I was going to get. Most people didn’t want anything to do with me, or this.”

“In minutes?”

“Maybe sixty? Some of it just scenery.”

She nodded. “So long as the memory card works, we’re golden.” The camera was gone from Rustle’s hand as golden flecks invaded his peripheral vision.

She didn’t close the door all the way when she left, and Rustle couldn’t bring himself to go near it.

In gold-speckled brown, he remembered the day he’d stepped off the bus in front of his intunity. No one was there to meet him. He recorded his walk through the gates and into his home, silent, empty. In his room, on his bed, he found the green angora blanket. It was deep green, not the shade he felt when startled, and yet, he was startled to see it in his room. That blanket had covered his mother’s lap when she read to him on cold winter nights. For years it had marked her place on the sofa, one of the deep greens and blues he knew meant something good by the way she gathered them to herself. In that moment, Rustle knew his mother hadn’t come back from San Francisco, had probably never intended to come back. Somehow, despite her messages and the one from his dad, Rustle hadn’t let himself see that she’d left, almost as soon as Rustle went off to school.

He’d switched off the camera, his whole childhood replaying against unfamiliar purple light. How long had his mom been staying only for him? He’d cast himself in the role of being misunderstood while he failed to understand anything about his family, his intunity, or the wider world. So he went ahead and made a video until his dad threw the camera across the room and kicked him out for good.

Now Marie was dead and he didn’t dare trust anyone else. He sat on his bed and thought about relighting the candle, but that seemed wrong. Whatever else may have happened, Marie was dead. He hadn’t gotten to tell her anything. He never would.

Rustle slumped further and further back until he ended up lying across his bed.

There wasn’t much traffic in the hall for a while, but things picked up again as his room grew dark. He heard the footsteps go by but didn’t see anything. His eyes had shut.

Then a set of footsteps passed, hesitated, backed up. There was a pause and a light tapping on his semi-open door. Rustle opened his eyes to see Bill framed in the light from the brighter hall. Bill pushed the door a little farther open when he saw Rustle was awake.

When Rustle made no move to even sit up, Bill said, “Are you okay?”

Rustle thought he should sit up, say he was fine, whatever it took to make Bill go away. But the thoughts just sloshed through his muddy brown mind and he didn’t do anything.

Bill stood with one hand on the door frame and one on Rustle’s doorknob. Rustle could see all six fingers on each hand. Bill’s eyes moved from Rustle on the bed to the open window to the blown out candle.

“It’s going to get seriously cold soon. How about if I shut your window?”

Rustle didn’t move or answer, and Bill walked into the room and across to the window. Once the window was closed, Rustle felt an immediate warmth, much warmer than the change in temperature around him. He felt Bill as the warmth, but Bill moved back to hover by the door.

Rustle realized Bill had never been inside his room. They’d spoken a few times since Thanksgiving, but always in public, always just a few words. Their only long talk had been the night after Rustle was abducted. Bill had taken care of Rustle then, and that might have been very bad for Bill in the long run.

Rustle watched Bill trying to decide if he should get involved again. Rustle wanted to send him away, keep him safe from his own good intentions, but he couldn’t muster the energy to talk or get off the bed.

Bill opened the door wider and then closed it over halfway. He opened it again, watching Rustle’s face as the light flooded in. He stepped forward and put a hand on Rustle’s forehead.

“Okay, you don’t seem feverish and your pupils seem to dilate just fine, but you’re sort of freaking me out. Can you tell me if you’re on something? Sick? Depressed?”

Rustle felt an indigo wash of shame for dragging Bill into this. He felt ice stab his throat as the word “depressed” reminded him of his first conversations with Marie. He tried to move his arms and push himself up, but he just couldn’t. So he focused on opening his mouth and managed to say, “I’m sorry.”

Bill shrugged and raised both six-fingered hands dramatically. “It’s okay, whatever. Did anyone do anything to you that I should know about?”

Rustle managed the word “No.”

“Are you on anything, drugs or medication, taken food or drink from strangers?”

“No.”

“Do you know what’s wrong with you?”

Rustle thought about Marie being dead, his parents splitting up, not being able to trust anyone. As the shell around him froze up again, he said, “Yes,” and pushed himself to sitting.

Bill smiled at the improvement. “Is it something you’re likely to tell me about?”

“No.”

Bill nodded as if he’d figured as much. Then he said, “Come on. I bet you haven’t eaten.”

Rustle wondered how Bill knew and then realized he was probably talking about lunch, or maybe dinner. Rustle hadn’t eaten all day, but he still didn’t feel hungry. He just followed Bill to the cafeteria.

They ended up sitting across from each other at a small table in a corner. Bill sat with his back to the wall. Rustle felt like a silent bubble inside a tub of noise. He lifted a meatball sandwich to his mouth and chewed without tasting. Bill ate pasta with marinara and meatballs. Neither of them said anything.

When they’d finished and were back outside Bill said, “If you need to talk, I’m willing to listen. I don’t know what you’re mixed up in now, and I’m not sure it’s any better for you to be seen with me than for me to be seen with you. But if it helps, I think I understand why you broke up with Caitlyn, and I don’t think anyone should blame you.”

Rustle wondered in a far-off way if Bill might actually know that Caitlyn had lied, but he decided Bill just understood why Rustle didn’t dare to be close to anyone. Bill was trying to help Rustle despite it all, and Rustle knew the best thing he could do right now would be to send Bill away.

“Look, there’s clearly something wrong, and you shouldn’t have to be all alone. Is there any way I can help?”

“No.”

“Will you come and tell me if you need help?”

Rustle wanted to say “yes,” to agree and let them both escape, but he just couldn’t force the lie from his mouth.

Bill stopped and put his hand on Rustle’s shoulder, stopping him, too. “Just tell me this much, do you think you’re in danger of disappearing or being harmed if I leave you alone until tomorrow?”

Rustle’s eyes got wet and he couldn’t feel the cold around him. He managed to shake his head.

“Okay, I’ll be in the cafeteria the same time every night this week. You can sit with me or not, but if I don’t see you there I’m going to assume you’re in trouble, and I’m going to come check on you. If you want to talk to me on the walk back, or some other time if you need to, I’m willing to risk that. I have my own safety precautions in place now, so you don’t have to worry about me too much. Does that sound okay to you?”

Rustle nodded. They started to walk again.

Bill spoke once more, without looking at Rustle, before they reached the dorm. “Whatever happened, you know, I’m sorry.”

A sonic boom went off in Rustle’s head, but he managed to say, “Thanks,” and get back to his room.

Then he lay on his bed in the dark and cried a few tears for Marie. Mostly he still felt empty. He couldn’t imagine going to classes or trying to do anything. Something inside him was beyond broken, it was gone, and he couldn’t even remember what it had felt like.

 

The next day Rustle did manage to pull himself to the cafeteria for all three meals.

He saw Bill at dinner but didn’t sit with him.

 

On Wednesday, walking back from dinner, Bill caught up with him and said, “I saw the video you made about your intunity. It came out well. This isn’t anything to do with that, is it?”

“No, don’t worry about it.”

“Okay,” Bill said. They walked the rest of the way in silence.

Back in his room, Rustle tried to sink into his bed as he had other nights, but the idea of his video intruded.

He pulled out his phone for the first time in days and sifted through the campus site to find the community video project and in particular the one tagged for his synesthetic intunity. He ignored the “support our cause” link. His vid opened with the first footage he’d shot, the view as he walked from the bus stop to his home, the opening of the front gate, into his room with his mother’s blanket on his bed. The music was triumphant with bright yellow fanfares and a spicy, steady beat.

Rustle couldn’t remember his own sensory accompaniment upon return, but he knew it had been a lot more tentative. In memory, a nervous pink tinge tainting the misty white of home. He paused the video, knowing the new production would lack his synesthetic component and could overwrite his first experience. Wouldn’t that be a bad thing, a betrayal of how he was raised?

He suddenly needed to watch the rest with a yellow urgency that fit the opening music.

The soundtrack faded back for the few audio clips where someone was willing to speak on camera. Most of the speakers were his age or younger, and none of them said anything extreme. His father neither appeared nor spoke, not that he’d explicitly refused. He’d merely been conspicuously absent for most of Rustle’s visit.

The last interview included was Tansy who said, “I think some of the older generation is shivered that someone my age might test as not genetically us. Or laws might explode and we might all seep out the cracks. Like it might be a ghost intunity soon. I don’t think so. Life’s warm here. Our friends and families shine here.”

Tansy talking on his tiny screen seemed more real than anything from the last three days. The idea that she was still back at home, saying Tansy-ish things, and maybe watching herself in the video, brought some reality back to Rustle. He thought about going home again despite his dad. Maybe he could talk to Tansy or some of the others, stay with them for a while. To them Marie would be just another one of his college friends. They wouldn’t connect her to anyone in the news or anyone who’d left campus while Rustle was detained. The safe whiteness of home as it had been enveloped him for a moment.

But the fantasy broke. Rustle knew that if he left campus now it would look suspicious. If he was being watched or bugged, they’d have ways of finding out what he said back home.

If he was being watched or bugged, the last three days already looked pretty suspicious. Rustle needed to at least go through the motions of attending classes. He resolved to pull himself together and began by sending the vid link to his mom and a board where Tansy and others would find it. Then he fell asleep, exhausted by his decisions.

 

By Friday, Rustle had mastered the art of filling a seat. He sat in his computer security and encryption class and nodded when his teacher or the rest of the class did. He occasionally took notes, but nothing seemed to stick in his head. He hadn’t done any homework yet, and wasn’t sure he ever would. He wasn’t sure why he was taking a class on computer security if Marie was gone, but he’d do almost anything not to be called in and questioned about her if anyone guessed why he was grieving.

As class let out, Rustle had no idea what they’d been studying. He swallowed down a violet sourness as Dr. Joe asked him to stay a minute.

“It’s good to see you, Rustle. Were you sick the first few days of term?”

Rustle nodded, hoping he could hide his dullness behind the excuse of having been ill.

“Something came for you Tuesday. I meant to tell you Wednesday, but of course, you weren’t here. It seems a Dr. Sandeep Batra at the University of Delhi wants you to give a poster presentation at a conference in India next month. He says he saw your project from last term on my website and was impressed. They have a grant to cover student travel.”

Rustle wasn’t sure he understood correctly. “My project wasn’t anything special.”

“I’m glad you realize that, Rustle.” Dr. Joe seemed to relax, and Rustle started paying better attention. “Don’t get me wrong, I thought you did very well, especially for a freshman who joined mid-term. But I’m guessing you must have some family connection who might have pulled a few strings on your behalf?”

“Huh?” Rustle managed. “I don’t think so.”

“Well, why don’t you think about it a little longer. I have no problem if someone you know is doing you a bit of a favor. You have potential, and it’s a good chance for you to see the world. I checked up a bit on Sandeep Batra, and he seems to be legitimate, as is the conference, but the circumstances are a bit peculiar. So you might want to figure out who you have to thank. Here’s the packet they faxed. It has dates, ticket vouchers, and so on. I’m happy to help if you have any questions on presenting a poster.”

Rustle took the packet and hurried back to his room. Something about this was tugging green threads in his mind. No matter how little he’d understood back home, he was pretty sure his parents didn’t have those sorts of friends, but Marie had all sorts of connections. Of course, the government did, too. They could be getting him to foreign soil to circumvent US laws. Or some weirdo who’d watched too many _On the Spot_ interviews could be playing some wacky scheme.

But Dr. Joe said the fax came on Tuesday, and Rustle thought that if Marie was alive, maybe she’d tried to send a message to let him know. Maybe she cared at least that much.

He went over every word of the fax with a magnifying glass. He looked for codes in the first or last letters of sentences and first or last letters of each line. He tried everything he could think of with the numbers on the flight vouchers and return fax and other numbers.

He went online to check up on the conference, which did seem to be legitimate. It would have been exciting to read about all the people presenting and all the optional excursions available, but what he wanted was to find some hidden message. He found nothing.

He searched for information on Dr. Batra. He read numerous articles Batra had written about computer-human interface. Again, they would have been interesting, except they appeared to be completely real writings on a serious, academic subject. Finally, Rustle was reduced to reading Professor Batra’s course materials. Luckily, they were mostly online and mostly in English.

Rustle finally stumbled upon a blog where Batra wrote about current issues in robotics and his students or others posted responses. He looked at the posts from Tuesday and found a paragraph about two-thirds of the way down:

Many humans like to play with fire. They encourage their friends to play with fire, and they may encourage personal robots to help them play with fire. Therefore, we need to carefully program future robots so there is no way to work around important protocols or safety controls when there is fire involved.

Rustle wanted to go back and search his _On the Spot_ interview for his exact words about playing with fire, but he didn’t want to search right now in case anyone was monitoring his access. He knew he’d said something like, “I won’t give up what I care about just because there’s fire involved.” He couldn’t believe this paragraph, written on Tuesday in his mysterious sponsor’s blog, in a post about programming personal robots, could be mere coincidence. Of course, this still could be a set-up by some sort of weirdo, but nothing else he’d searched had any apparent overlap with _On the Spot_ interviews, and everything seemed to have happened on Tuesday. The day after Marie’s supposed death.

Rustle read the responses to the posting in case there was any further message, but he didn’t spot anything unusual. He didn’t want to spend too much time on that page, so he kept researching Dr. Sandeep Batra. Even as he did, a green net was forming in his mind. A net that suggested Marie could be alive. The circuitousness of the message seemed to fit what he’d seen of her thinking. Or he could be deluding himself.

There were a few short knocks at his door, and Rustle glanced at the clock. He’d missed eating dinner at the same time as Bill. He hopped from his bed and opened the door.

Sure enough Bill stood there. He looked Rustle up and down, then raised an eyebrow. “Are you okay?”

“I think I am.”

The baffled look on Bill’s face made Rustle smile. Then Bill smiled.

“Are you going to eat?”

“Yeah, I just lost track of time.”

Bill nodded and went to his own room. Rustle gathered his phone and conference packet and went to dinner.

 

At IntuNight that Sunday they were simulcasting the videos on all the large computer screens in the room. There was soda and popcorn and a generally self-congratulatory mood. Caitlyn even gave Rustle a brief, one-armed hug as he came in, which set bells ringing, not unpleasantly, through his head. He still sat well away from her, but no one seemed to be giving him the evil eye this term.

 

 

 

**Chapter 21**

_Far from the Tree                                            Monday, February 12, 2073_

_Genetic Rights and Freedoms Act Passes_

_By Tim Id Not, Tree Correspondent_

_Today is history. Thank you anonymous donor for paying ’til now, but starting next year you’re off the hook. The Genetic Rights and Freedoms Act squeaked through Congress and the President signed it._

_I may be an intunite or I may not, but to get to Nutty U we all passed the standard placement tests at well above the federal requirement for college funding. As of August 1, the US government is paying college fees for all of us! As of August 1, we could all apply anyplace we want, but why would we leave?_

_How did this happen? A year ago, most of the country thought it was crazy to admit non-genotypicals to a regular university. But reporters and activists watched our classes, watched our social lives, and half the time weren’t sure where the people they were watching came from._

_Pretty soon people asked, “Why isn’t the government paying for the genotypical kids at least?” And as the test scores came in and people kept talking, more and more said, “If it’s worth educating some of these kids, it’s worth educating all of them.”_

_Maybe it wasn’t so simple. There were a couple of scandals, a couple of lawsuits. There were some viral scares and genetics breakthroughs. There were speeches and books. But there was also Nutty U._

_Now the government will pay the same college entitlement to anyone who can pass the test, regardless of genetic status. They’ve also changed police procedure so DNA typing is done later in the process and with some new privacy protections._

_It’s not everything. Most of the intunites still can’t get free medical care off campus or go to public school before college. A lot of the rules about what’s genotypical or not are still pretty stupid. But hey, at least the country’s moving in our direction. Let’s celebrate!_

 

 

Rustle read the school news from a hotel room in India and felt a plum hope that everything might work out okay. Then brown jaws bit him in the stomach, and he was sure in the moment that Marie was dead. He’d found no other sign that she was involved, beyond the one paragraph posted in the robotics blog. That had been enough to make him work on a poster presentation. That had been enough to make him study even more security technology than he would have otherwise. That had been enough to make him study ahead in all his classes so he could take off for a week in India.

Rustle wasn’t sure whether he believed Marie was alive or just wanted to believe.

He unwrapped his poster materials and went downstairs to set up. Dr. Joe had suggested Rustle focus on secure communications in architectural design. That had been almost half of Rustle’s final project anyway, and boiling it down to fit on a poster had been hard. Joe had found him a flexible display that affixed to the poster like a photo but could show a continually rotating house blueprint. The blueprint showed how two independent sets of phone/entertainment system wires could run separate networks throughout the house. Rustle also posted a basic code algorithm for one system to check on the other’s integrity without risking its own. He hadn’t trusted any automated procedure for one system to take over if the other was infected, but the systems contained enough redundancy that a human alerted to a problem could shut one down and fill in with the other. There were also independent one-way communications protocols to monitor for physical intrusions and to collect basic information on anyone approaching the house.

Rustle sifted ideas for electronic and robotic information integrity until a human voice just behind him boomed, “Rustle Andoin, I presume.”

Rustle turned to find a very large Indian man with very little hair standing within centimeters. His mind was just adapting his memory of photos on the web to the height, bulk, and nearness of his sponsor when the man said, “I’m Sandeep Batra, student grant oversight.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir.” Rustle put his hand out to shake and wished he’d asked Dr. Joe about the social protocols and not just the poster expectations.

But Dr. Batra took Rustle’s hand and pumped up and down before patting Rustle on the back. “We’re so glad you could make it. We have only a few international students presenting, but we hope you’ll all take a lot home from the experience. There’s a gathering in the rear lounge tonight at nine so you can all get to know each other.”

Rustle wondered if Marie might be there, or maybe she’d send someone to pass him a message. Or maybe he was missing some other option entirely.

“Dr. Batra.”

“Yes?”

“I really appreciate being invited to the conference and I’m very excited to be here, but can you tell me, how was I chosen?”

“Your paper impressed the committee.”

“Thank you, but how did the committee even find my paper?”

“Hmm…” Batra either had trouble remembering or was a very good actor. “You know, I think one of my students commented on it in class, so I looked it up.” The big man bent closer to Rustle and spoke in a quieter voice that was still loud enough to hear across the room. “I will admit that even here some participants are bound to know your name from the US news reports, but don’t worry, you weren’t selected for any political reason. If that brought someone’s attention to the paper you posted, well,” he shrugged, “that’s life in the real world.”

Rustle nodded. “Thanks.” He tried to pretend he was reassured, even as he wondered if this was just another layer of cover-up. Or maybe Dr. Batra knew nothing and some student truly had influenced him to invite Rustle. Rustle nodded his goodbyes’ worried that he’d never find out if Marie was alive or if there was some greater significance to this invitation.

He shivered with light pink uncertainty and thought about retreating to his room. Maybe it was better if he didn’t learn anything more. At least now he could pretend to himself that Marie was safe. He could get on with his own life and make the most of potential connections from this conference. Rustle forced himself to look around at other posters that were already up. He spoke to a couple of people around the room and told himself it was a good career move, but he’d also realized that if anyone wanted to deliver a covert message, they weren’t likely to visit his room to do so.

 

By 9 PM, Rustle’s brain thrummed with information overload. He’d learned aspects of computer security he hadn’t even thought about before the opening remarks, been the only person who didn’t have digital or paper business cards to hand out, and not found a single piece of evidence to connect his current circumstances to Marie. Still, he made himself attend the student mixer in the rear lounge, and was grateful to see they had platters of nuts and giant-sized chips set out, because his jet lag seemed to have morphed into munchies.

About half the students milling around seemed to be from India and the other half from somewhere else. There were about as many females as males and their clothing, while tame by Nutty U standards, was easily diverse enough to camouflage Rustle in his black pants and striped silk shirt. He found a place near a table with chips and let conversation wash around him until the room felt cloudy and comfortable.

“Hi, I’m Soar.” The girl addressing him was blond and pretty. She wore a little black dress and had an accent that wasn’t quite British but definitely wasn’t Indian.

“Hi, Soar. I’m Rustle, from the US.”

“Yeah, I’m from New Zealand. This is John, from Bulgaria?”

John nodded and took a couple chips.

“And that’s Tam, from Japan.” Tam ducked his head in acknowledgement but seemed to be subvocalizing something for his phone.

“So, do you have an advisor here, or are you a la carte?” Soar asked.

Rustle chatted with Soar and various others until he couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore. No one seemed to have a secret message to deliver, so he returned to his room.

He woke in the middle of the night convinced he’d heard something being shoved under his hotel room door, but when he turned on the light to check there was nothing there. He fell back asleep and dreamed about belly dancers and bastilla.

 

By the time the conference wrapped up, Rustle had pretty much convinced himself none of it had anything to do with Marie. Still, he’d learned a lot. He had some great ideas for protecting his phone and future building designs that he was truly eager to return home to explore. And yet, a lump of indigo sat like a stone in his stomach. He knew the things he wanted to say to Marie were selfish and tangled with his own mixed feelings at not exposing Caitlyn’s lie. Since Marie had disappeared from his closet, he’d lost a lot of his trust in individuals and society and given up some of his own honesty and moral high ground. He’d realized that Marie was authentic with him and there for him in a way he might not find again, and he didn’t think he could ever let go of the hope that she was alive.

Now he was sitting on a small plane with the other foreign students. They had been given a two-day tour as part of their grant package. After a very non-informative visit to the Taj Mahal, they were being flown to Aurangabad from which they were to visit some caves. A very intense student named Luke was telling everyone what he’d read about the caves, and Rustle tried to rally some interest.

 

The caves weren’t natural. Rustle saw columns and arches carved into a raw stone face. The sun beat down making even the gray slabs of rock shine. The protected, carved entries glowed like sand on a beach, and Rustle walked a more modern path that curved along the cliff to the mouths of the caves. Stepping into the first one, Rustle stopped thinking of it as a cave. This was a temple carved into a cliff.

A wiry Indian man took Luke by the arm, and Rustle and a few others were drawn along in his wake. Beyond the front pillars, the cave was dark and Rustle had to wait for his eyes to adapt. The wiry man spoke rapidly in a singsong voice. “You see, they mixed clay and dung and lime. They mixed them in to make the colors part of the wall, so they stay all this time, you see?”

Rustle wandered to the back of the cave where a statue of Buddha sat. It offered a solidity he wanted, but he couldn’t tune out all the people talking. He heard something about the second century BC and something about the Buddha’s mother giving birth to him under a tree while she was on her way home. He realized with a glimmer of purple curiosity that he didn’t really know anything about Buddhism beyond vague notions that people meditated and maybe sought enlightenment. He thought there had been several Buddhas, but most people around him were saying “the Buddha,” so maybe he had that wrong.

He stood, stunned that anyone could carve so much out of rock, as a singsong voice grew nearer explaining that the layers of different rock made it easy to excavate. He headed toward the light at the front.

Outside, in the bright sun once again, he could barely see, but he knew there were many more caves, and he figured the others might be less crowded. A couple more men called out to him offering to show him the caves or give him a tour. He shook his head and didn’t make eye contact. Then one brushed up beside him and said, “Rustle, I know what cave you want to see.”

Rustle looked at this man, who wasn’t small or wiry but seemed to choose exactly the same singsong cadence as their first guide. Rustle didn’t ask how the guide knew his name. Maybe he’d just heard another student use it. The guide winked at him, and the faint purple in his head was replaced by high energy yellow.

He followed the guide along the cliff path as a black scent of cinnamon grew within him. They were trudging uphill toward the far end when a man holding a polished piece of metal nodded to them. The guide nodded back and motioned Rustle through a relatively simple set of pillars. Rustle walked back into the darkness, toward another Buddha. This cave was empty somehow, and Rustle guessed why as he heard the man with the mirror start arguing with some passersby. He insisted they pay him to reflect light from his mirror into the cave. But there must have been something discouraging in the way he said it, because no one followed Rustle into the cave.

At that moment, Rustle’s heart raced with red, and he turned to see Marie in the shadows to his right. She didn’t move or say anything. She wore a long, light gray tunic like many Indian women wore, with lose pants and a head scarf. She would never pass for Indian, but he’d seen plenty of Westerners dressed that way. In a crowd, or a cave carved from gray rock, she’d be easy to overlook. Rustle didn’t even know what had caused him to look when he did, but now he couldn’t look away.

Black flooded him. He wanted so much to pull Marie close, to keep her close. And he tingled with orange and the scents of tea. “You’re alive.”

“Reports of my death were a bit exaggerated.”

They stood frozen in front of stone carvings that resolved into Buddha stories as Rustle’s eyes adjusted. There were doorways leading to tiny little rooms behind Marie, and she turned and motioned for Rustle to follow her into one. In the dark space she reached out and handed him something metal. He turned it in his palm and found it was an earpiece connected to a cord. He traced his hand along the cord and found it connected directly to another earpiece, which Marie had fitted around her ear. His hand touched her jaw and neck for a moment and the black surged through him like a current. He quickly removed his hand and affixed his own earpiece.

“Just subvocalize. We won’t have to worry about anyone hearing even if they come into the cave.”

“Won’t they see us?” It was dark, but the room they’d entered was so small it could all be easily seen through the doorway.

“They’ll probably assume we’re up to something else and look away.” With that she put a hand on his waist and he could barely keep from shaking.

“Will we be?”

Marie moved a step closer. “I don’t know. You wanted to find me. I understood that well enough. But I’m not sure I know exactly why.”

Rustle didn’t know why at the moment. He wanted to pull Marie up against him and kiss her and do a lot more than would probably be a good idea in this semi-public place. He shifted back a step so his shirt touched cool stone. Marie’s hand was still on his waist. They were still connected by the earphone wire.

He tried to clear his head, to remember all the times he’d planned what to say. But when he’d planned it, his body hadn’t felt like this. He had no desire to talk, no desire to understand, no desire to say anything that might cause Marie to pull away. Yet, _he_ had just pulled away. He had to remember what he wanted to say.

“M—” He stopped, thinking maybe he shouldn’t even subvocalize her name, even in the back of a dark cave. “Are we safe here?”

She smiled like sparks bursting from a fire. “Probably not, but you would have expected that when you tried to find me.”

“Is this the only time I’m going to see you?”

“I need to know what you want.”

“I want to be with you or at least know I’ll see you sometimes.”

“You know what I’m involved with?”

“What they supposedly killed you for?”

She nodded. He’d known, but somehow he’d refused to be certain until she confirmed it.

“Was it just to get your people delisted?”

“No. I had nothing to do with that.” Her voice seemed defiant even subvocalizing. Perhaps it was in the rhythm. Perhaps the split he’d imagined between Marie’s work and her mom’s was about right.

“But it wasn’t coincidence that it happened right after the viruses?”

She shook her head. The scarf around her face seemed more black than gray and Rustle wanted to reach out and stroke her cheek. But his green web was forming again, and he needed to tie up some loose threads.

“Are you done with it? Could you be done with it and be with me?”

“Are you asking me to play house?”

Her eyes were fixed on his, the pupils so wide there was almost no iris. He was pretty sure she wasn’t mocking him, but it still cut like a hot wire. Somehow, that made the irrational black rise in him and threatened to pull his green web apart. He finally found some of the words he’d practiced before in his mind, and he said them before he could chicken out. “I wanted you to know that…” He paused. He wanted to say it right, the way he meant it and not defensively. “You should know that I really love you. I think I’m always going to love you, even if I don’t see you again, even if you die. But I can’t be involved in terrorism. Somehow, I can accept what you’ve done and what I think it means to you. But I couldn’t be part of that. If you’re done with it, or if you’re going to be really done with it one day, I’d like to be with you then.”

That was close to what he’d meant to say. He couldn’t tell from looking at Marie what she made of it. She was looking him up and down, much like that first day on the roof. He wondered if she could see enough to know how aroused he was just standing close to her. Just thinking about her noticing flooded him with black, and he let his net slip, because it was all up to Marie now. He’d just given her the power to break his heart, and he could hear the silence within him as he waited for her response.

“I guess that’s why I came,” she said. “I had to know.”

Part of Rustle came back into focus. He couldn’t tell by tone of voice when she was subvocalizing, but he thought she understood. Chillingly, she didn’t look very pleased. “There’s something about you, Rustle. If I could give up what I’m doing and run away with you, I would. But I think you knew I couldn’t. The part about someday, that’s a pretty big promise to make when you’re nineteen.”

She took her hand off his waist. It felt like he’d lost part of himself.

It was freezing, crushing, cacophonous. Somehow, it was also what Rustle had expected. His green net caught him and helped him speak. “You told me once to build houses, with truly hidden backdoors. I’ll do that. You could visit me. And I have a phone that I’ve checked, both hardware and software, so I think it’s really secure. I can give you an encryption key.”

Tears filled Marie’s eyes, and Rustle put his hand out to her waist. Her warmth pulsed through him like blood, but it was more metallic than black. He wanted her as much as ever, but it mattered more that he convince her to stay part of his life.

“They’d figure it out eventually. It can only be bad for you in the long run.”

“It would be worse not knowing you.”

“I may never be able to go back to the US.”

“Do you think you’ll ever settle down and stop—” Rustle didn’t think asking her if she’d stop being a terrorist covered it. He partly agreed that what she’d done was no worse than what several government employees had probably done, but he didn’t think he could live with one of those government employees either. “Is there an endpoint where you would stop doing things without people’s knowledge or permission? Will you give this up someday?”

“If the world changes enough, I’ll stop. But you have to know, I’d still be considered a criminal. I will have to lie about who I am for the rest of my life. You don’t want to be part of that.”

He dared to pull her a little closer, and she let him. They were just a breath apart. “I could live with that. I think I could give up almost anything to be with you, just not enough to be with you now. Please, promise that I’ll see you again? Promise that we’ll be able to communicate?”

“Promise? I can’t promise I’ll live through today.”

Rustle pulled her closer. She melted into him in a way he hadn’t expected. He wanted so much to be with her. He thought he could give up everything else, maybe he could even help a terrorist, but he kept those thoughts to himself. He reached all the way around Marie and held her to him.

It was amazing that no one else had come into the cave. He wondered how the guides outside had managed it, but he also realized it had been only a few minutes. They were probably the most important minutes of his life. His body surged with the warmth and scent of Marie, the real warmth and scent of Marie. He wanted to stay with her forever, but he couldn’t go with her and ignore what she did. He could love her despite it, but knew he couldn’t live in the middle of it day to day.

“We couldn’t just stay together for tonight?” he asked.

She shook her head against his neck, and pulled her head back a bit. “I don’t think there’s any way. I’m pretty sure someone is keeping tabs on you, and this has already gone on too long.”

Her face hovered by his and he thought she was going to kiss him, but she pulled further back. She said, “I’ll take your encryption key though. You want me despite it all?”

“Yes.”

She held out her phone. He held his touching his ring and gave her the key.

“I don’t know if I’ll see you in person again.”

They were staring at each other. He’d stashed his phone, and his hand rested on her hip.

“At least you can let me know you’re still alive. And maybe I can build a house that’s safe for us.”

“They could monitor it all the time, or just come in and search.”

“Maybe the future will be better than that. Maybe I’ll just keep building houses until I get it right.”

“I don’t want you to waste your life waiting for me.”

“I’ll build better houses for other people, too. I think you were right when you said I should be an architect.”

“I was right when I said you liked to play with fire.”

“No.” He pulled her close. “I’d stay with you, but you’re the one who really likes playing with fire.”

She pulled up against him again. “At the moment, I don’t like it at all. Do you think anyone I work with wanted me to see you? Do you think I wanted to mess with both our minds like this? Do you know why I came here?”

“Yeah, I know. You love me, too.”

She kissed him then as if neither of them had ever needed to breathe. Rustle lost himself completely and couldn’t find words let alone a green net when she pulled away.

She held a finger to something behind the earpiece that connected them. She was listening, and then she was speaking. “You have to go. Follow the guide to the next cave and just try to act natural. I think you’ll be okay.”

He wanted to ask if she’d be okay. He wanted to ask how long whatever she was doing might take. He couldn’t find the words. She squeezed his hand and removed it from her hip as she removed the earphone from his ear. She pushed him through the little stone doorway and he saw his “guide” beckoning him from just inside the columns.

Rustle knew that if Marie pulled him back, asked him right then to come with her despite it all, he’d probably do whatever she said. He looked into her eyes, and even in the semi-dark he could see she knew it too. He could see she wanted to but would never do that to him. So he walked toward the guide, who led him into the sunlight and started talking about the next cave. Sure enough, the group of students he’d started with back in the first cave was now haggling with the man holding the shiny metal mirror. Luke already had money in his hand, ready to pay.

They waved to Rustle as he followed his guide to the next cave. Rustle waved back wondering if they’d just caught up by chance or if one of them was supposed to be keeping an eye on him.

Once inside the next cave, the man leading Rustle said softly, “You’d probably like some time to study this cave on your own. I know I’m not a very good guide.”

“You’ve been an excellent guide, but I understand. Should I give you a tip now?”

“No thanks. I’d give _you_ a few, but I suspect you’d ignore them.” He tilted his head as if he’d been dismissed and made his way out of the cave. Rustle tried to study the carvings and murals, but he wanted to be outside where he could see whatever happened. It was all he could do to walk away from the cave where he’d met Marie. He wondered if she’d walked out in her disguise or if she’d had some secret escape route.

He walked out all the way past the farthest cave to the end of the ledge path. From here he could look back and see the entrances to all the caves. The sun still glowed off the carved stone as it had when he’d arrived. Rustle glanced at his watch and saw barely fifteen minutes had passed since he’d left the first cave. He’d probably only spent five of those with Marie. But the black behind each carved cave entrance held a different meaning for him now. He sent a picture of the caves to his mom, and then a copy to his dad, as he imagined carving his own caves under a house he might one day build.

 

 

 

**Chapter 22**

_San Francisco Chronicle                                 Sunday, August 25, 2080_

_Rustle Andoin Builds Dream House in Costa Rica_

_By Stella Wu, Chronicle Correspondent_

_A little north of a town called Flamingo, high above crashing waves and circling birds, Rustle Andoin is building his dream house all by himself. The famed young architect, designer of the Arborview project in San Francisco, winner of the prestigious New Wright and other awards, has gone into semi-retirement in Costa Rica to try his hand at creating a house from his own designs._

_The twenty-seven-year-old architect has patented critical technologies for sound-proofing and household voice interaction used in several of today’s most prestigious housing developments. Working with Tongue Tight, a robotic voice company, he designed a household interaction system that swept the market. The system uses subliminal tones common in children’s and adults’ favorite comfort shows and allows for personal and situational adaptability._

_Asked how he had the foresight to patent his designs fresh out of grad school, Andoin says, “A side benefit of attending Hershenstein, I guess; lots of helpful lawyers around.”_

_Andoin was an unusual Hershenstein student. He was admitted from an intunity only to discover during his first year at college that he was genotypical. Some architectural admirers point to his background among synesthetics as inspiration for his sound-proofing and synthetic voice utilization ideas. “I chose architecture because it was so—it was such a great feeling as a design came together. The design for this house has been in me all that time, and I knew I’d want to make it with my own hands.”_

_He admits he did have help from some friends in the business. “There are parts I just couldn’t do alone.” But the great majority, right down to drilling local rock for the roof tiles, Andoin did himself with only bot assistance. “I chose this location for its unique features, and I wanted my house to—incorporate what I liked about the place as much as possible.”_

_He points to the gray stone roof tiles with their streaks of white and almost green. The weight and size of that grayness might seem oppressive away from the surrounding cliffs. But Andoin almost blushes when I ask him how he feels about all the gray, saying only, “It’s too much to explain.”_

_The inside of the architect’s dream house remains unseen and only partly finished, as he tries to complete the exterior before the weather turns. While fitting a planter window into one of his trademark deep walls, he offers: “Of course I’m designing the household voice system to adjust its own undertones and overtones. It can adapt based on tones being used in a room or be adjusted manually along emotive or preference scales, but it’s hard to get what you want that way. And it’s more fun to let the system self-regulate.”_

_Andoin doesn’t seem as concerned with verbal processing power or vocabulary range as with how the synthesized voices sound. “I like the quirks of conversation with bots. But a bad tone of voice brings anyone down. Human brains are wired to respond to sound emotionally. If we’re going to synthesize voices, we want those biases to work for, not against, us.”_

Asked if he’s also handling the interior decorating himself, he says, “At least to start. It’s easy to know what colors and textures I want when I’m right there in the middle of it, a lot like designing a house. There’s that moment when it all comes together, and I wouldn’t want to miss that.”

 

Rustle dropped from the hidden passage in the gap between his walls, and landed in the cool solidity of his basement. Faint gray ripples marked the unfinished stone behind him, where the mining bot had smoothed it. The remaining walls were painted in mixed shades of gray with circular strokes to suggest more granite. Gray tones had long meant security to Rustle, even before he’d built into this rock.

            He reached for a vacuum hose on the stair landing, dusted his clothes on low, and glanced in a mirror. Hissing tube in hand, he paused to wonder at his pale face. He should be lightly toasted from working outside, but today his face looked chalky, pasty under the eyes. That wasn’t a mood color either. Whoever they’d sent would see him like this.

“House?” he said.

“The visitor will reach the front door in approximately three minutes.” The voice was female, but unabashedly synthetic. It sparkled with overtones of fuzzy children’s hand puppets and warmed his skin like his mother’s green blanket. His synesthetic insights, that sparkle and scent, had helped him design the voice system and made his building ideas unique. The house had alerted him, very much by design, and it was good to have a house on his side.

But did it have to intrude now?

“Have we been scanned or served notice, house?”

“No.”

“Security systems?”

“One hundred percent.”

“Really?” Stupid thing to ask a computer. “Have there been any ambiguous queries today? Any account inquiries other than utilities and geology?”

“None. Should I run diagnostics?”

The voice brushed against him like the cool gray walls, and Rustle guessed the modularity had increased or the pitch had lowered in response to anxiety in his tone. Such adjustments should work subliminally, but as a designer he took pride in noticing.

“Don’t bother.” The diagnostics were standard nonsense and would never notice infiltration by a high level agency.

“Maybe later?” The eager tone and informality buffeted him like warm air. The complexity of the inflection acquisition system bolstered his pride. Surely he could handle whoever was snooping.

A last glance toward the basement, and his pseudo-sensory warm fuzzies hit the floor. He sucked in clear air and found his world flat and colorless. What if they found Marie? They’d never before come while she was near.

Rustle shook his head as he hurried upstairs, checking his phone for the feed from his front walk cameras. Black suit and solid build, beefy unfamiliar face, just what he’d expect. Two minutes, fifteen seconds remaining.

Rustle listened to the house voice again as he padded across heated tiles in the kitchen and poured fizzy passion fruit nectar to calm himself.

“Would you like to catch up on news?” The kitchen purred its standard inflection. “‘Rustle Andoin Builds Dream House in Costa Rica’ tops your queue. Posted today at 700 Eastern Standard Time for the _San Francisco Chronicle_ by correspondent Stella Wu.”

“Please save.”

“Certainly,” the house replied in a softer tone, adjusting. “Would you like anything else?”

“No, thank you. Just quiet for now.”

Rustle submerged momentarily in silence and the sunlit dapple on his cranberry walls. The crackling in his mind reminded him of his difference. By now, the colors tied to his emotions were a palette he could play with, but other cross-sensory impressions remained capricious.

The doorbell whispered, “Visitors,” in a soothing baritone, and Rustle crossed to the entry. The door coasted open, admitting cool salty air and a blocky man in a suit.

“Mister Rustle Andoin?”

“Yes?”

“I’m Sergeant McGovern, CIA.” He flashed a badge and ID card that Rustle’s home security system had validated before opening the door. “I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”

Rustle led the officer to a sitting room all in shades of brown with two windows overlooking the coastal scrub, strong plants flexing with the wind. Waiting in silence, he guessed the sergeant was assessing feedback from covert systems lining his clothing. Would Rustle’s own rapid heartbeat be part of the scan? Surely everyone’s heartbeat was fast near these people, whether or not it drummed across their vision.

How much information did the government have on him? Did files list him as a criminal? He’d never been charged with anything, well, not with anything true.

The visitor edged his way toward a recliner covered in deep chestnut leather, a tone Rustle particularly disliked. Did they even know that about him? Marie knew, and would be amused by how he’d decorated this room. Here he planned to entertain the unpleasant parts of humanity: salespeople, social climbers, and the government. He counted it as a mental advantage that a subset of color could contain the unpleasantness that entered his house. But would it be enough today?

“Mr. Andoin, could you list where you’ve been in the past three days?”

“Home. Sometimes working outside.”

“Have you been in contact with anyone?”

Like the woman hiding in my basement? He wondered, but he said, “Electronically, but not physically.” Wrong phrasing, he could feel his body heat as he thought about Marie. Any bio-monitor was sure to pick that up, but he could cover with another emotional reaction. “Is there a reason you’re asking about my personal life?”

He felt sincere, red-tinged annoyance at the intrusion. He couldn’t defend some of Marie’s past actions, but were men like this any better? He should have asked Marie her suspicions before responding to the visitor alert, but he’d been caught off guard.

“Part of a routine investigation. Did you speak with Roxanne Karosky, a grocery delivery person, two days ago at 11:20 AM?”

Was this a decoy, or were they actually suspicious of some delivery person? “I guess I spoke with the woman who brought the groceries.”

“Had you seen her before?”

“Sure, she delivers the groceries, sometimes.”

“Do you make a habit of speaking to delivery people?”

The sergeant was probably trying to calm him, to get a baseline for later biometric readings. Rustle remembered his old worries about talking to typs, worries that any acquaintance or government investigator might catch him acting synesthetic. He let the old anxieties invade his response, keeping him tense and hard to interpret. “Don’t most people chat when face to face with someone?”

“Do you remember what you talked about?”

“The weather? The sun on the front walk?”

“Do you order your groceries on Fridays because you want Ms. Karosky to deliver them?”

“What? I set the computer to order groceries once a week. You probably know I have water delivered weekly as well. Are you investigating the water guy next?”

Rustle’s tone had risen and his modulation decreased without any conscious effort. It was easy to playact righteous indignation when he could hear his pulse like the beep on an oven timer. They must know Marie was here. Had she done something terrifying again? There were many genetic battles still being fought, but nothing like the terrorism when they were back in school.

The government still checked up on him sometimes, even after he’d left the US. He’d been questioned by the CIA before, but not in such strange detail. And not while Marie was in the house. Were they stalling while backup forces arrived? How closely had he been watched?

The sergeant straightened the lapels on his jacket, perhaps adjusting some surveillance device, and asked, “Have you heard anything recently from Ms. Marie Durran?”

“I read in the Chronicle that she was dead.”

“Again.”

“I only know what I read.”

“Have you read about the latest avian flu?”

“No, I don’t think so.” He wondered if he’d missed something important. If they were ever able to access his phone, they would find dozens of articles that might relate to genetic activism and Marie. Lately it was just the rediscovery of a couple animal species previously presumed extinct. The US had rescinded most of its genetic bans, and other backward countries were following suit. The synesthetics and most other intunity-based groups had been delisted, and medical coverage was nearly all-inclusive. If governments could only forgive and forget, Marie could probably work openly as a scientist now. But governments didn’t adapt that fast, so she remained a fugitive.

The man in the brown chair continued: “Flying in with a record crop of seagulls this year was a virus with one sequence linked to synesthesia. We know it’s engineered; nothing like that would show up naturally in a seabird. What we can’t figure out is why. No combination of synesthetic segments is currently banned. By itself, the virus segment is common and insignificant, and it seems designed to only infect about one in ten of those exposed.”

Rustle saw plum chuckles in the air around McGovern, but the brownness of the room and this visit kept him from reacting. “I’m sure I’m not the person to ask. I’m just an architect.” But even as he said it, his mind sped through a leaf-green web. Marie had talked about leaving “seeds” as she’d called them. Somehow, she could set up viruses with bits of the human genome that she thought might someday be deleted. Far into the future, these “seeds” might be randomly reintroduced from pseudo-natural reservoirs. She’d described it as a genetic diversity insurance policy, but Rustle had not known the policy was in effect. Maybe this release had come earlier than expected. Maybe she was close to stopping.

“We know you communicate with her. We know you’ve seen her recently.”

“Whatever gives you that idea?”

“Oh, just a little something called virus tracking, with a trigger set to her DNA. You’re all lit up on our detection equipment, and wherever Marie’s going right now, she’s all lit up too.”

Rustle guessed from a flick of the sergeant’s gaze that he was receiving his feedback from some sort of visual implant, a piece of technology Rustle was not eager to adopt. He wondered if this was a bluff, meant to trick him into saying something, but as the officer pushed forward from the recliner, Rustle couldn’t help but ask, “What are you talking about? Wouldn’t you need to inform the public of such a virus release under the latest Genetic Rights and Freedoms Act?”

McGovern smiled. “Why should you care? You’re just an architect.”

“You’ve just implied some sort of viral threat. If you won’t explain yourself, I might want to seek outside medical attention.”

“Good luck with that, but I assure you it’s harmless enough. You’ve simply contracted a virus that activates in contact with certain DNA. Even then it won’t hurt anyone, just make them easily detectable by certain equipment. Strange that it should activate when you haven’t seen Ms. Durran.”

“Perhaps in going through old belongings from college, I came across something with traces of her DNA? Couldn’t that activate such a virus?”

Rustle tried to stay calm, fearing he’d already betrayed Marie and knowing this government man was gloating. But if they were tracking her, she’d already left the house. Their equipment shouldn’t be able to scan the basement. He would have expected her to flee after this visitor’s untimely arrival. But after so long, how could either of them guess that this visit was a trap?

The sergeant, still smiling, began making his way toward the door. “Looks like she snuck out through your garbage chute. What an odd way to treat your guests.” A few silent steps took them both to the front door. “Me, I’ll just let myself out here. Thanks for the visit.”

Rustle nodded, face rigid, a cloud of violet confusion descending. He stumbled back to the cranberry kitchen as he tried to sort it all out.

Marie had left via the garbage duct? That was unusual. It opened onto a public road where the bots could wheel accepted disposables for community reprocessing. He’d presumed she’d use the more obscure passages reaching the local wilderness or ocean caves.

Could it all be a lie? But why make it so specific? Could he just now have been infected with the tracker virus and they were counting on him to run after Marie and spread it? They’d do better not to tell him, if they really had such a thing.

Rustle couldn’t risk going into the ducts now. Better to stay upstairs, keep up appearances, just in case some surveillance was tracking him. The top part of the house was close enough to normal to allow that. Pulling items from cupboards as if preparing dinner, Rustle poked his head into a metal pantry bin and subvocalized into the household net. “Are you really gone, or did you hear all that?”

“I’m fine. My viral warning system activated. Forgive me for not telling you yet?”

“I guess, but—”

“Come down in an hour, and I’ll explain.”

Rustle carried on with dinner. When his mind ran too red, he asked the house to play some calming harp music. New strands of green fell into place along a fuzz of orange mist, convincing him that Marie was still present and as safe as possible.

 

He waited just over an hour before visiting the basement. By the furnace controls he leaned against a linking plate and subvocalized, “Is it safe to come in?”

“Safe enough.”

Rustle stepped into the water heater closet and shut the door. He made his way back into one of his standard wide-access walls, the ones with offset supports and airspace that provided sound proofing between rooms upstairs. Down here, these walls were all metal, a maze of access panels and spaces for later innovation, a large chunk of un-scannable design. Through a false wall he passed into the air supply system and from there into a set of disconnected ductworks, his guest quarters for Marie.

There were several spaces either a meter wide and two tall or two wide and one tall. Not much room for two people to share, but enough to sleep, or stand and stretch, or just converse. Marie was currently stretched out in what he’d planned as a bedroom duct. Rustle crawled in beside her.

“I should inform you,” she said. “You’ll catch the latest creation of my viral warning system.”

“I was worried about you.” He crept into the whiteness of their familiarity, and she kissed him and made room for both of them to lie side by side. Her head was propped up on one arm, hair loose and still about shoulder length. What skin he could see beyond her clingy long sleeves and leggings had darkened since her last visit, either from sun exposure or as a protection against it. There were tiny creases visible beside her eyes and above the corners of her mouth.

“I didn’t mean for you to worry. I just figured it would be easier if you didn’t know too much before questioning.”

“You weren’t testing me?”

“You could have faked the conversation.”

“Only if I knew you’d be here listening, not disappearing out the trash duct.”

“I rubbed down one of your bots and sent it out with a bin.”

“How did you know?”

“They had to eventually try a targeted virus. I’ve grown all sorts of defenses to detect and neutralize stuff like that. Still, if it had been more than a tracking virus, it might have worked too fast for defenses. I wonder why they still want me alive.”

“I’m glad they do.”

“I should stop coming to you.”

He reached an arm out to her shoulder. “I’d come with you, if you let me.”

“Do you still want to?”

He paused, ice in his chest and fire on his skin. Was he hearing a real invitation, after all this time?

“Are you offering? Are you done with—with the other things you do?”

She nodded. “It was all set up ahead. I probably could do it fast enough to beat their tracking, but it’s safer to wait while the virus is neutralized. Could you really be happy leaving all you’ve built here?”

“You think we’ll never come back?”

“I certainly couldn’t.”

“I don’t need it. I could build something new. Are you really done with your other work?”            

“I’m as done as I can ever be. I resigned, but if the government keeps tracking me, my systems will keep designing neutralizing agents. I thought things were going pretty well when I arranged this visit, but—Do you still want to come?”

Rustle nodded.

They kissed as the virus was neutralized in a duct he’d designed and built himself. Orange, black, and teal flashed along to savory nutmeg scents, and if it wasn’t the perfect, simple orange of his childhood, it was mosaicly good.

 

The End


End file.
